Our Belov'd Fallen
by Kim Who Knows
Summary: As the plans for Sam and the other children finally come to light, the brothers are lost in a race for answers. Dean struggles for life in a battle Mary swore he wouldn't fight, and Sam starts to break beneath the prophecy: For soon, hell cometh.
1. Chapter 1

It was Dean who fell first in a shower of blood, his crimson life pouring from the ribbons of flesh that had once made up the front of his neck. He went down hard and without even blinking, the Demon stepped over his body and continued on its intended path of travel. It ignored John entirely, walked within arms length of the oldest Winchester. The aloof manner it had once shown was gone, the interest in psychological warfare and teasing nonexistent, its eyes focused on the one thing it had worked for for so long, and, with its brother's life in his hands, the Demon knew he was as invincible as it was possible for a supernatural being to be in company of Winchesters.

Samuel didn't have a choice.

John's screamed "Dean!" barely registered. He heard the scuffling of feet rushing from one place to another, the thud of John's knees hitting the dirt, the muffled swishing of a cloth swathed body being lifted and cradled against a father's chest.

He didn't really care.

Sam saw him coming, and in an instant, those proud eyes were ablaze with fury. The Demon could feel that store of inhuman power bubbling just beneath the surface of that frail, human mind, and he knew he was close. It felt good to know that he and only he had ever been able to prompt such a reaction. There had been small pulses of that power, of course, with the abused boy and the nightmares. But still, it had never been like this, and the Demon felt proud, despite himself.

Sam's lip pulled back in a feral glint of bared teeth. A stream of useless, mortal curses and profanity flowed from his mouth. The Demon stopped his approach and waited for words of consequence. "How _dare _you." Sam finally hissed. The Demon felt the power tugging on the ends of his conscious mind, like small claws scrabbling for a firm grasp, waiting for enough hold to tear his entity apart.

Ineffective, of course. After all, it was he who had given Sam his abilities in the first place. Any Machiavellian turn of events was strictly forbidden.

"How dare I what?"

The power flared awesomely. "You killed my brother." Molten steel words from a fiery tongue.

The Demon only smiled.

"It was _me _you were after."

"Of course. It always has been. Unfortunately for your brother, he just happened to be right in my path. A pity, actually." The Demon cast an uncaring glance over his shoulder, where John still knelt with Mary's eldest son still clenched firmly in his arms. "Could have been useful if it weren't for that pesky sense of familial obligation."

"Shut up."

"Have I found a soft spot, Samuel? That was my intention, anyhow. But what does it matter to you? Didn't you want him gone? Didn't you say that once? More than once?"

"Shut up!" The Demon smiled as the power hit him in a solid wave, like a skyscraper wall. Almost, but not quite.

"Well, I just got him out of the way. Oh, and Samuel? Don't bother trying to comfort yourself with that 'he's in a better place' mumbo-jumbo. I tore his soul into so many pieces there won't be anything for anyone on the other side to find."

That was it. The floodgates burst and a fury unimaginable by those who have never seen hell broke across all barriers. The Demon was almost caught. Almost. But this is what it had been waiting for for longer than Sam Winchester's mind could even imagine. The Demon extended its mind to coccoon the youngest Winchester's, trapped his entity and strength in one, deft swoop, and then, when he had Sam securely caught, he crushed down. Sam screamed in agony. It had anticipated a struggle, and it came hard and fast, the youngest hunter frantically lost in a fight for his own mind. Yes, it had been anticipated and it was quickly beat down.

What the Demon had not anticipated was John Winchester's swift transition from grief to activity. The Demon hadn't even known he was there until a searing agony tore through his chest. Not The Colt, no, that was still in Dean's back pocket, but something else that hurt like it had been. He stayed as long as the pain would allow, then let Sam's silent, limp body slide to the floor, the mind within it still alive, but barely so. He disappeared in a rush of black smoke, swearing in a language only a few select of hell's worst understood. But as he did, he couldn't help but smile.

He'd just have to go for plan B.

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John sat still for a moment, hesitating between the son who lay with eyes glazed, throat torn, soul long gone, and the son who sits slumped against the mountain face, eyes glassy and unfocused.

It was with the tearing of the last unbroken place in his heart he let go of Dean and reached for Sam.

He knelt carefully, afraid that if he made too much sound, Sam's throat would open up too, and his life would go rushing from him in a burst of blood, that he'd lose both sons instead of just his oldest. There was no response from Sam. Further inspection revealed one pupil dilated and the other small as the point of a pin. Head injury, but from what, exactly, John didn't know. He'd heard the conversation between his youngest and…that **thing**…but only from somewhere within the throbbing of his own mind, _Dean no Dean Dean DeanDeanDean, _and the next thing he knew his youngest was limp and damaged on some godforsaken mountain top.

Sam needed a doctor.

John glanced back at Dean, his Dean, dead. There was no way he could show up at the hospital with a dead man in his car. Too many questions, so many explanations he couldn't give. No. He'd have to come back later and hope the wolves and vultures had left his baby untouched. He bit his lip to hold back tears, swept Sammy up in his arms, careful not to jostle his head, began the long, lonely walk back to his truck, each step leaving his heart shredded a little more.

When at last he reached the truck, the sun had gone down completely and the September chill of night was settling in, leaving his fingers numb. He settled Sam carefully down on the seat then rushed to his side and clambered in. With the familiar thrum of the engine came the sense of urgency he'd been too shell-shocked to feel before. His military mind ran a list through his mind, unbidden. One son short. Three pistols. Seventy some odd miles into town. Ten miles further for the hospital. Sam sustaining injury, severe, most likely.

Go.

Numbly, he put the car in drive. The headlights flared to life, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out.

Dean stood there, clothes still dripping in blood, throat flayed, but eyes focused, and his hands moving, raised to his neck, feeling the slices there. John threw open his door, but, reluctant to leave Sam, who still lay comatose on the seat beside him, he did not get out. He waited for the spector to disappear.

It didn't.

Instead, Dean came around to the driver's side door, his eyes wide with panic and confusion. John reached out tentatively and touched his son's shoulder.

Solid. Dean was no ghost. Dean opened his mouth, and without inhaling for air, said, "Dad? Why aren't I breathing?"

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Somewhere above them, the Demon smiled. Yeah. Plan B would work just fine.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_I hope you all enjoyed! Reviews are good for karma!_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	2. Chapter 2

_I would like to thank those who reviewed on the first chapter. Thank you so much! Special thanks to Faye Dartmouth for all her kind compliments and ahemgentle ahem prodding to get this chapter out. _

_Also, the "add ruler" bar on my previewer isn't working, so the "ooooooo" will have to do to seperate scenes. Frustration, frustration, frustration._

_Thanks, and enjoy!_

_**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**_

_When Dean woke, it was to the harsh warmth of blood in his mouth and throat, the ice cold dirt beneath him, and the ache and cramp of muscles that had been unused for a time. It wasn't like any kind of awakening he'd had before. It wasn't the slow, easy rising to the surface of sleep-waking, nor the quick, sudden jerk of injured-waking. It was simply that one moment he was not awake, and the next he was. He rolled onto his side and spit, expelling what seemed like a literal mouthful of blood onto the ground. It was dark, so he couldn't tell how much, exactly, had been in there, but the taste lingered as he stumbled to his feet. _

_"Dad?" He said, feeling slightly out of breath. Not surprising, really. After all, he'd have to have sustained quite a wound to spit up that much blood. He ran his hands quickly over his torso. They came away sticky and wet and his knees started trembling slightly. Yeah. Definitely something there. He wiped his hands on his jeans. He needed light. A proper inspection couldn't really be done in the dark. _

_Speaking of which, it had been light last thing he'd remembered, and Dad had been there, and Sam too. They'd been here stalking that Demon, and they'd almost called it a night…and then he'd been here, covered in blood from a wound he couldn't feel he'd sustained. But, Dean reflected, Dad wasn't here, and neither was Sammy. His head snapped up in sudden realization. If he couldn't feel a wound, how likely was it that it was **his **blood at all?_

_"Sammy!" He called, and his voice echoed off the dense pine trees that towered over him, swaying slightly with the breeze that swallowed some of the power of his voice. He swore quietly and took off through the underbrush. Dad had parked his truck nearly four miles up the road, a distance that seemed far, but his soldier mind knew how important it was he get there.. _

_Check the most likely place, check the truck. Find Sammy, look for Dad. If they're hurt, that's where they'll go._

_That Demon wasn't about the get its filthy claws on his family. Not while he was still breathing._

_Dean ran possibly harder than he'd done in years, his hands stretched out in front of him to create a barrier between himself and any trees that might make a sudden appearance. He stopped only occasionally to check his position, correct it if his direction had gotten off. He made good time, the best time he'd ever made, in fact. It was when he'd ran nearly all the four miles that it hit him._

_He was barely out of breath. _

_An odd thought, maybe, but still, it warranted a moment of his time. Come to think of it, his legs didn't burn with exhaustion. In fact, if anything, he felt fairly invigorated with the exercise. Better to be safe than sorry, oddness notwithstanding, so just to make sure he was getting enough oxygen, he dragged in a deep breath. _

_And found he couldn't._

_He could feel the night air smooth on his tongue and brushing his lips, but none of it seemed capable of entering his body. He instinctively stopped, put his hands to his neck, and felt his mind burn with panic. _

_He could feel slices deep enough to put his finger into almost up to the knuckle, and he could feel the hard ribbing of his windpipe hacked in two. He sought out his jugular, found it severed and dripping wet. Panic gave way to confusion. Was he dead then? He didn't feel dead. In fact, he couldn't feel much of anything. Poking around his wounded neck didn't elicit any pain, just a vague sense of discomfort. But he had to be dead. People didn't just walk around with their necks hacked open perfectly okay. But, as always, his mind couldn't stay on himself for long._

_**Sammy**. If the Demon, who wasn't even **after **him, had managed to cook up this little surprise, imagine what he'd done to his real target. _

_Dean ran faster, but kept one hand on his neck. _

_**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**_

"Dean?" John choked. His heart screamed with need to touch, hold, cradle, but his mind retorted, shoot that monster, your son's dead, shoot it!

Dean's eyes, wide with question, slipped past his shoulder to look at Sam, propped loosely against the seat's back. "What happened here?"

" A lot of things." Dean took his hands away from his neck, and John couldn't help but gasp. Everything from Dean's muscle to his windpipe was completely stripped of its covering, and the latter was severed almost entirely. John had seen it when the wound had been inflicted, but somehow it was more horrifying now that Dean was…standing there, looking so impossibly young…

His mind closed off the emotion. That wasn't his son. Dean was dead. "Christo," he said, loudly and with as much authority he could muster. Nothing. No flinching. John was immensely relieved. If the Demon possessed his son, he wasn't sure he'd have the guts to shoot it.

Dean came forward, reached across John's lap to touch Sam's forehead gently, sweeping his hair out of his eyes. "What's the matter with Sammy, Dad? That Demon had better not have--."

John cut him off. "Where's my son."

"What? Dad, we have to get Sam somewhere, he--."

"You stop using my son's body, or I swear, I'll tear you apart."

"Dad, it's me." Dean sounded hurt. John the Father hated that. John the Hunter ignored it.

"What color was the dress Mary wore on the picnic we had for Dean's fourth birthday?" He reached into his back pocket and readied the pistol hidden there in an instant, had it cocked and aimed at the spector's heart before the body it inhabited had chance to react. His son's body stepped backward.

"Blue. With flowers on it. She had her hair in a ponytail." Dean said quietly. He stepped back from the truck. "Dad, what's going on?" Sudden wariness flashed across his eyes. "Christo," he said reluctantly. No reaction. Dean looked relieved.

John sat frozen for a moment. That picnic was one of Dean's few memories of his mother that hadn't faded with time. It had been their password forever. But how could he honestly trust a corpse? But then, even if Dean was some kind of apparition, there was almost no chance it would be hostile. Some spirits needed a little more time with its family before it moved on for good, which is why there were so many records of people seeing their loved ones at home while a hundred miles away they had died in a car wreck hours ago. If getting in the truck was going to make getting to Mary any easier for Dean, John was willing to do it. And then there was always the possibility Dean was actually here, and not dead at all…

His heart seized control of his limbs anyway and tucked the pistol back into his pocket. "Get in, Dean."

"Yes, sir." He scrambled around the passenger side door, slamming the door behind him as John skidding onto the road. "What happened?"

"The Demon showed up. He and Sam…they argued for a while, and then…well, they had a battle of wills, you could say."

Dean turned his head to look at him, shifting Sam into his arms. "You mean with the Shining?"

John laughed humorlessly. "Yeah. Something like that. Anyway, Sammy got beat, it looks like. All I know is I shot that thing and it left Sam crumpled in a heap on that mountaintop."

They were silent for a while, Dean holding Sam close to his chest, John trying as hard as he could not to stare at Dean's exposed throat. His oldest son finally looked up at him. "So…it did this to me?"

"Yeah. It came out of nowhere. We didn't even know it was there until after…" John trailed off, his words leaving an acidic taste in his mouth.

"After it killed me."

"No. You can't be dead, Dean, at least not all the way." He was reaching for any explanation, he knew it. It didn't stop him from hoping, though.

"No, I'm dead. I can tell."

John's heart beat hard and fast in his chest. "How?"

"I can't really feel much. I'm a little out of breath, for obvious reasons, but I'm not feeling oxygen deprived. Not tired, which I should be, with how much blood is everywhere."

"But it's not possible."

"We're Winchesters. Anything's possible. Besides, haven't you ever seen Night of the Living Dead?"

"Not funny, Dean."

"Seriously. I don't know what it is, but I feel…disconnected. I'm not sure what's going on. I'm just not…all here, I guess."

"Not all here?"

"Yeah, like, the lights are on, but nobody's home."

John's heart beat impossibly hard, thudding in his chest frantically. "We're stopping at the motel. You can't come with us. Too many questions."

"Yeah, okay." Dean cradled Sam's head in the crook between his neck and his shoulder, resting his chin in his brother's hair. He closed his eyes, and for a long stretch of road, he wondered if his dead son was asleep, an oxymoron of epic proportions. He snuck glances at his children more frequently than he watched the road. Sam was still unconscious, unmoving, his lips parted slightly, with that comforting cycle of inhale-exhale maintaining itself. John had no such comfort with Dean. No breath stirred from his eldest's lips, and there was always that throat…

The oldest Winchester pulled into the motel parking lot with a squeal of burning rubber. Dean opened his eyes, and instinctively John knew Dean hadn't been sleeping at all. "We're here. You go in, salt everything. The doors, windows, and then do two circles around your bed. Lock everything, and you keep this pistol on you at all times. Loaded with silver bullets dipped in holy water. Didn't kill the Demon, but it'll scare it off. You stay in one place, understand?"

Dean traded his father's pistol for the Colt, casting Sam one more glance as he handed it over. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Anything happens, you call me. I mean it, Dean. You're not exactly in your prime, and I don't want any heroics."

"Yes, sir." Dean lay Sam back against the seat. He kept one hand on his brother's shoulder and flicked his eyes up to meet his father's. "Please take good care of him, Dad."

"Yeah. I will Dean. Don't worry."

"I still probably will." He smiled wanely, and John noticed there was still traces of blood on the corners of his mouth. "Call me?"

"Sure." Dean stepped back and closed the door, and John waited until he saw room seventeen's door close before he pulled away. He glanced at Sam and gently straightened the angle of his head with one hand before he disappeared in a cloud of dust and exhaust, his foot pushing the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

"_What do you want?" Sam faced the beast in front of him with nothing but accusations and hatred coursing hot and full in his veins. _

_The Demon smiled, a glint of teeth in the black and white of what was left in Sam's mind. "Well, I just dropped in. It's not a crime."_

_The saliva in Sam's mouth turned acidic, burning his tongue as he spoke. "Get out. Or I swear I won't give Dad a chance to find you. I'll just kill you myself. I'm not quite as forgiving as he is, either."_

_"Oh, yes. We all saw how well that turned out last time, didn't we?" The Demon grinned patronizingly. "If you'd like to try again, I suppose I can manage to kill your father in front of you too. Takes care of my problems."_

_They stared at each other, the flaming gold of the Demon's gaze trying to subdue the frigidly tense hatred in Sam's. Neither made a move toward the other, locked into whatever strange rules this place abided by, which apparently stipulated limited physical movement. _

_The Demon finally spoke. "So, what should we talk about? We do have some time before you wake up again. Quite some time." _

_Sam's body shook with expressed disgust. _

_"All right, then. Movies are a good topic." A pause, the Demon chuckling quietly under his breath. "Ever seen Night of the Living Dead?" _

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

_Please review!_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	3. Chapter 3

_Yes, yes, I know, a long wait. But here is Chapter Three hot out of the oven for you! _

**_I do not own Supernatural! It is the baby of Eric Kripke!_**

_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Dr. Cedric Browning had seen many people in his career in the medical practice, a reign which had spanned nearly twenty years. He'd seen unconcerned parents whose children were an inconcenience, and he'd seen parents of an only child who flitted from corner to corner of the waiting room, anxious over a simple case of stitches.

But he'd never been faced with anyone quite like John Richards. A scruffy beard that clung to his face like whisps of shadow served only to heighten the sense of urgency in the shining eyes as he burst through the hospital doors, steps sure and steady, even though in his arms lay a man of fairly large stature. Someone close to him, that much was obvious, because nobody held a stranger with that much care. He'd wasted no time, military in his actions, pushed his way through a few other people right to the front desk.

"A doctor." Eyes burning with urgency, a man of desperation. Nothing else had been needed to set the staff to work. They'd taken the young man, Sam, and undergone every test they could think of. Scans of his body showed no injury. Blood tests came back fine. Heartbeat was normal.

Dr. Browning pushed through the swinging double doors into the waiting room, expecting to see the man with burning eyes gazing at him with rabid anticipation. Instead, he saw him hunched in a chair in the corner, head buried in his hands, the air of total command gone.

"Mr. Richards?" Cedric extended his hand. John took it tentatively. "We've run all the tests on your son."

"How is he?"

"We have every reason to believe he'll return to conciousness soon and with no complications afterwards."

The relief in the stranger's face was immense. "That's good. How long until…"

"That's what I've come to speak to you about. You say it happened while hiking?"

"Yeah. Me and my boys, we're big hikers. My oldest boy and I had climbed a little ahead, when we noticed Sam wasn't following. We went back and found him on the ground."

"I see. Do you hike often as a recreational activity?"

"Yes." Suspicion laced John's words. "Why?"

"We're simply trying to pinpoint exactly what's wrong with your son. Right now, we believe he probably just slipped and hit his head. As of now, he's wavering between extremely deep sleep and an actual unconscious state. Though it is unusual for the sleep accompanying a bump to the head to last this long, it's not unheard of. Judging by the information you've just given me, I'd give him until morning. If he's still not awake by then, we'll have to call in a specialist."

John leaned back in his chair, running a dirty hand through dust coated hair. "Good."

"Is your older son here?" Clouds of distrust and defense, raining hostility, suddenly swirled in the air surrounding the two men.

"No. He isn't."

Dr. Cedric Browning thanked him walked away very quickly.

_ooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Ever since a Semi had slammed into the side of Dean's car, and John had almost lost his oldest, he'd had to do a lot of thinking. Watching Dean fight his way through meals because the agony of swallowing was so much to take, watching as he would lapse in and out of sleep because the doctors had to keep waking him up to check for continual damage, watching, watching, watching. They had come so close, he and Sam, come desperately close to losing the only string that really tied the Winchester family together. It had gone so far as to have Dean flat lining once during the duration of his stay in the hospital. And for that matter, Sam's head had slammed against the window in the crash, and he hadn't been particularly on top of his game, either. John had realized some things during the long hours next to their respective beds.

First, he had become a twisted man, sick with the lust for revenge. How on earth had he ever lost his focus to the point where his sons, his children, had become second priority? The reason he had hunted in the first place was to protect those boys from what was out there. Before the first hunt, he'd gone in, taken Sammy out of his crib and held him close, and when Dean woke up to his father's sobs, well, John'd scooped him up in the other arm and rocked them both until they went back to sleep. He was killing that banshee for _them_, because that was one less thing that would pin them on the ceiling and burn them until they died. Because that wouldn't happen to his boys. He would protect them. He was their father.

But then, as Dean proved to be built solid and fast and obedient and an even better shot than his father, and Sam had turned out to be an intelligent and calculated fighter with a right hook that could have knocked The Rock for a loop, he'd stopped worrying about them. Not entirely, paternal instinct was too strong for that, but he'd stopped having that fierce pang of need to keep them away from the darkness. Dean started doing jobs alone, jobs that went flawlessly every time, and Sam…well, Sam grew up. Went from a chubby twelve-year-old to a fierce alpha male in what seemed like hours. John had, in a sense, forgotten about them. Revenge had become his reality, hatred his sustaining substance.

Sick and twisted that it took near death to bring that back into perspective.

Secondly, that he was so _sorry_. It had brought him to tears a few times, when he was away from the boys. Sorry for birthdays that were forgotten. Sorry for days when the boys hadn't eaten, and he hadn't even noticed until he saw their eyes fixing on diner billboards and remembered. Sorry for forcing them to call a hundred dirty apartments 'home'. Sorry for never teaching them that sometimes, it was okay to ask for help, that sometimes, being a man meant being willing to share the load.

Lastly, he hated that the boys had moved past it all. He didn't deserve them. Not even close. Dean waved everything away, forgiving as a freaking Saint, sidestepping huge vices and continuing on as though he hadn't even seen them. Sam still glared at his father over the table, sometimes, lacking his older sibling's ability to forgive, but even he was willing to swallow a lot. An awful lot, even if sometimes, it was only to protect Dean.

But John didn't understand how they did it. He'd stripped any semblance of normality from his youngest, dragging him out of every extracurricular club he tried to join, because they wouldn't help him hunt. He'd worked hard to keep Sam in check, harsher with him than he was with his more complacent older brother. He'd kicked Sam out, a raw, unprepared eighteen year old kid, into the world and cut him off. He didn't call, and he monitored Dean's calls too, obsessed that if Sam was going to live without them, they would prove that they could live without him.

The selfishness of it all made him sick.

And then there was Dean, the picture of injured abandonment. Dean lived for his family. He fought and scraped and bled and starved to keep them together. Sam's lack of remorse over leaving his older brother had left Dean so emotionally starved he'd practically begged for John's attention in the first months. Hunting sprees that lasted for days without sleep, fighting and killing so he could come home and say with a child's eyes, "Dad, look what I did, do you love me now?"

And John's stomach still turned when he thought about how he'd never answered.

In the silence of the hospital lobby, John Winchester picked up his cell phone, and with a hint of an unspeakable sorrow trailing wet and cold down his cheek, he called his son.

_oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

This was very possibly the oddest sensation Dean had ever experienced. He was exhausted, his mind fragmented, pulled into pieces and bloodied by the events of an impossibly long day and night, and the horrors experienced throughout it. But his body felt no less run down than it had hours ago. He was literally at odds with himself, his living mind begging, pleading his dead body to sleep, and so far, it had adamantly refused. He opened vivid green eyes to glare in fury at the alarm clock, which continued to show a neon red '4:19' despite his visual threat.

His cell phone vibrated and jingled on the bedside table, and he made a grab for it, his breathless "Hello," loud in the silence of the room.

"Dean, he's going to be okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You okay?"

"What do you think?"

"You sound tired."

"I am."

"They say Sammy'll be up and running by late this morning, so you need to get some rest."

_I'd love to. _"You sure you don't want me to come and wait with you?"

"No, Dean. You stay where you are." A pause. "Everything salted?"

"Yes, sir." It was true too. Despite what he told himself, the fact that he had suddenly decided to cheat death a second time was more than a little discomfiting. Looking around the room, he almost had to laugh at his own paranoia. Salt covered every entrance and exit. Really, really covered it. He had two empty half-pound bottles of salt to prove it. "I'd rather be waiting with you." _Say yes, say yes, I don't want to deal with this on my own, I can't deal with this on my own._

"Too many people. If the thing that killed Mary did this, I don't want you anywhere but where I tell you to be, understand? I need to know you're safe, Dean. I can't look out for Sam if I'm wondering where you are and what you're being exposed too. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright. I'm coming by the motel, okay? You get yourself cleaned up?"

"Yes, sir." The wound in his neck looked even stranger without the dried layers of deep, crimson blood clooming all around it. It had taken nearly an hour in the shower to get it all off, but now it looked possibly more unnatural, now that if Dean had put on a high-necked shirt, there would have been nothing to indicate he was, in fact, _dead_. Unnerving.

"You sit tight and wait for me. We'll fix this. Anything you need?"

"A scarf, maybe? Just a wild guess, but I'd say we're going to look slightly suspicious without it."

John made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. "That's original."

"Yeah, well, I have a lot on my mind."

"Right. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"What about Sam?"

A long pause, neither Winchester giving any ground. "We'll see how the scarf goes. If it works, we'll come back here and wait. He'll be fine for now." John's voice took on a sort of awkward, sorrowful tone. "Dean?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm not going to leave you alone again, Dean-o. Don't worry. I'll see you soon."

Alone in his motel room, Dean Winchester hung up his cell phone and wondered why he felt torn between crying from sadness and crying for joy.

_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

"_Jess went down easy, you know. Not like your mama. Sweet little Jess just looked at me. Until I killed her. Then she didn't look at me anymore."_

_"Funny, kind of the same way with your daughter." _

_The Demon's smile faded. "You are a bit of a smart mouth, aren't you?" _

_"Everyone says so."_

_"Dean was always _more _of a smart alec, wasn't he? I have to admit, sometimes, when I would watch you two in those crappy motels, he would even amuse me. I think he and I would get along, if it weren't' for the hatred we have for each other."_

_"Pity."_

_"Oh, yes." The Demon stretched lazily in Sam's head, making the youngest Winchester's temple throb. "Well, our time grows short. You'll be awake in a few hours."_

_Sam didn't say anything. Truthfully, his silence stemmed from his own insecurity about what, exactly he was going to do when he woke up. Dean was dead. His rock, his anchor to sanity torn to pieces on some mountain top. What now, where to go, who to talk to rang through his head like thundering church bells. _

_"We've had a nice chat. What, the cold shoulder now? You don't have to talk. But you do have to listen. This is important stuff, Samuel."_

_'You don't have anything to say that I want to hear."_

_"I can save your brother." Sam's head snapped up to meet cruel amber eyes. _

_"What?"_

_"How much do you know about Melanesia?"_

_"How can you save my brother?" _

_"While most human folklore is ridiculously far-fetched, those islanders seem to have gotten one part right. When someone dies in a violent manner, like your brother dearest, their soul effectively splits, one part moving on to 'a better place', and the other remaining as the ghost, vengeful spirit, whatever you hunters call it nowadays.. The word for the former is Aunga, I believe, and the latter, Adaro." _

_Sam's eyes searched the Demon's face, feeling a giddy, wild sense of hope, even though rationality demanded him to stop and _think_. But so far, the Demon had been serious about things like this. When he wanted something, he could certainly make a deal to get it."How can you save my brother?"_

_"When I killed your brother--don't give me that look-- I 'caught' his Aunga. I sealed a tiny, tiny portion of it back in him." That smile again. "Your brother's there, Samuel, with your father, walking, talking, breathing…well, not actually breathing…. something wrong? You look a little pale."_

_"I don't understand. Why kill my brother, then give him back?" _

_"Give him back? I'm not explaining this very well. It's very complicated, but I'm not giving him back for _free_. I have half your brother's soul, and not only that, but half his _spiritus vitae _as well. I attached it by a very thin strand to your brother's body, giving him the ability to interact without actually being alive. Good news, I can give it all back, join the Aunga with the Adaro, and let your brother live again, no questions asked."_

_"The bad news?"_

_"Oh, that. It's simple really. I need you to find a woman. Her name is Eloise Mitchell. She'd be in her seventies by now, most likely. When you find her, you kill her. When I've confirmed her death, you get your brother back. I'll seal up his throat myself." _

_"How do I know you're not lying?"_

_"You'll be awake in an hour. Dean's in the truck on his way to see you now. Make the deal, and if you still don't believe me after you've seen him yourself, you can break it off. No questions asked. Of course, I'll crush my half right then, and you'll have to watch him die in front of you again..." He shrugged. "But it's your decision." _

_"Why should I kill a stranger for you?"_

_"I think the question is, would you kill a stranger…for your brother?"_

_They both already knew the answer. _

_ooooooooooooooooooooooo_

_And there you have it! I hope you enjoyed, and by the way, there have been nearly 200 hits on this story, but not as many reviews. Come on, people! Work with me here! Review!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	4. Chapter 4

_Wow, thank you for all the lovely reviews! I know it was a bit of a longer wait, but I will update at least once every two weeks. Enjoy! This came out a little more emotional than I meant it to be, but after several rewrites, I just kept coming back to this._

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

"_Well, I have to be off. I don't want to be here in moment. Your brother's coming up the hall, and he's a good shot." The Demon rose to his feet, dusting his long, black overcoat with one hand. His eyes danced with anticipation. "So, I expect you'll be going after Eloise soon."_

_"As long as it gets rid of you, I'll start hunting for her as soon as I'm awake." _

_"Hunting her?" A caustic laugh, burning acidic in the air. "There's hope for you yet, Samuel." The Demon's solid, lithe form began to dissapate into a cloud of black, swirling smoke, hot and dizzyingly sulphuric. A tendril that had once been a powerful hand swept Sam's jawbone in a perfect mockery of affection. "I do wish you luck though." _

_"What is she to you?" The abrupt inquiry came out of Sam's mouth, dropping from his lips by chance , not design._

_The smoke paused, forming a vaguely humanoid shape. "Who?"_

_"Eloise Mitchell. Why her?"_

_"Let us just say… her death does something for both of us." _

_And he was gone. _

_Oooooooooooooooooooo_

"Which room?" Involutarily, John shuddered. Dean's voice, with that odd quality of being able to speak without the use of actual air, sounded almost like a whisper, with smooth, low tones of difficulty gliding softly beneath the words. Dean shouldn't sound like that. Dean was loud and sarcastic, stubborn and occasionally socially inept. He was not quiet and compliant, accepting and occasionally vunerable, which was exactly what the quiet whisper-voice made him sound like.

"The one at the end of the hall. Tan door." John quickened his pace to keep up with his son. The fact that Dean wasn't _deterred _by his own death, no, even that Dean was possibly even _more _hardy than before, made him feel even more at a loss as the paternal figure. If Dean had been weak, sick, wounded, incapable of holding his own, John would know what to do. Hold him tight until he's better, search books and the web while he's sleeping, find a solution, get the solution, give Dean the solution, and watch his oldest get up and walk of his own power, healed.

John didn't think that applied here.

He stepped easily into pace with Dean, put a hand on his shoulder. "This is the one." Dean made a move for the door, a spark of life almost returning to his eyes. Almost. "Hang on." Dean's eyes, previously empty, nearly showed emotion.

"What?" He made another move for the door, reaching out one pale hand to grasp the doorknob. John put a warning hand on his wrist.

"Dean. Something happened to your brother back there." A pause. "I don't know what he's going to be like when he wakes up." He paused again, the words he meant to say plastering themselves to the roof of his mouth. "You watch him."

"I always do."

"And Dean?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Your scarf's slipping. I can see it." 'It' had become the term to refer to Dean's life-ending injury. John couldn't bring himself to say what it really was. The scarf, purchased at the local gas station, was thick and black, and fairly well suited for its macabre purpose. Dean hurriedly pulled it up, wrapping the long tail around once more. John nodded his approval and reached for the door. A gentle tug all that was required to open it. The older Winchesters stepped in quietly, and John turned, lightly tapping the door shut. From behind his turned shoulders, he could hear Dean's footfalls quick and powerful rush across the room, and his youngest son's voice murmur his older brother's name. John joined Dean at the end of the bed, and somehow, the three of them, their little triad of strength, defined safety, defined home. Odd, John reflected in the back of his mind, because they'd never been less secure, and they'd never had a home.

"Sammy." Dean planted both hands of the bedrails, leaning in over his sibling like the roof that shelters the innocents from the storm.

Sam didn't say anything, lying still beneath white sheets. His eyes, still fluttering slightly, flickered back and forth on his brother's face, searching for traces of something, eager and appealing, unsettled as lamplight in the rain. Dean repeated himself, rocking forward then back slightly, tapping one finger against the cold metal he held to anxiously. Sam opened his mouth, closed it again, then said, "Dean? Are you…?"

"Yeah, Sammy. You…?"

"Yes."

Dean stepped back, and John was sure that if his son could have sighed, he would have out of sheer relief. "Okay."

"What happened up there, Sam?" John chose his authoritative voice. His boys were going on emotion alone, and emotions weren't tied in with reality by any kind of thread. Right now, the last thing the Winchesters needed was to lose touch with reality.

"The Demon came at me. He…provoked me, made me fight. With…you know…" He broke off, and tapped his temple lightly with one finger. His father nodded. "He beat me." Sam shook his head, swearing softly. "It hurt, too."

"We're lucky it didn't kill you, Sam." John remarked, reaching to lightly brush unruly bangs from his son's face.

"Yeah. He got Dean instead." Sam's voice broke. "Dean? How…"

"It's a long story."

"I have nowhere to be."

Dean smiled, exhaustion streaking the crinkles in the corner of his eyes with dark. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Dad, will you stand guard?"

John just smiled back, knowing full well that that was just a polite way of saying, _I have to talk to Sam, please leave._ He stepped out quickly, and when the door closed behind him, felt out the gun in his pocket, solid and weighty.

Just in case.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Did it hurt?"

"Not much. Actually, it hurt a lot. But only for a second."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Dad and I…we were right there. I was ten feet away, and I couldn't stop it." A bitter laugh, rising from bitter depths. "Dad was even closer. And we didn't even know he was there, didn't even…couldn't even help you."

"Oh, come on, Sam. We're not starting the guilt thing again. You sound like such a girl."

"Yeah, Dean, well I think it's justified this time around."

"What, sounding like a girl?"

Sam glared at him, without any real anger.

Dean scoffed, dropping into the chair, slinging one arm nonchalantly over the side, resting his head against his seat's sagging back. "Sam, what do you want me to say? 'You're right, it's all your fault?' I hate to burst your bubble, but every event in the universe doesn't happen because of you."

"This one did." Dean opened his mouth to argue, bus Sam cut him off, abrupt. "Can I see it?"

"Trust me, you don't want to see it."

"Yeah, I do." It was Dean's duty as older brother to say no. The Columbian necktie that blossomed across his throat wasn't exactly something you exposed your little brother to. But something in Sam's eyes whispered competence, a silent assurance that Sam had already prepared himself for the blow.

Dean shook his head, but unwound the black material from around his neck, let the scarf slither across his knees to the floor. Sam closed his eyes tightly, his lips pursing, and a single tear danced from his eyes to his cheekbone, until he raised a hand to wipe it away. But one crack in a dam can release the flood, and it wasn't long before the lone tear found itself in abundant company. The youngest Winchester, at age twenty-three, suddenly found a million pent up tears coursing their way across his face. But there was no shame in it, not this time, because when Sam looked up, Dean was already settling onto the bed next to him one arm raising to pull his brother into a tight embrace.

"What are we going to do, Dean? I don't know what to do." Sam was sobbing now, his voice wavering, his hand clenched firmly in his older brother's shirt. How did he explain to Dean the choice he now had to make? If it'd just been Dean, he could have handled it. It would have been hard, but he could have handled it. But it was Dean, and the Demon, and a stranger he'd have to murder, not just kill, but murder, and now there was no doubt that he'd have to do it, because only Dean really mattered, and that was how Sam could save him.

"I don't know, either, Sammy."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Were you scared to die?"

Dean closed his eyes, and he felt phantom, imaginary tears build in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I was. I only had a second, you know? Just a few seconds after it got me, where I couldn't move and everything hurt so much, and then I saw Dad." His voice dropped until it was nearly inaudible. Sam quieted and listened. "And then nothing hurt. But I could still see. It wasn't bad, wherever it is we go after. Kind of peaceful, actually." Dean rested his chin against the top of Sam's head, emotion almost choking in its intensity. "I think…I think I saw Mom."

And both the sons of Mary, the sacrifice, and John, the crusader, cried.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Alright, there you have it! Next chapter, Sam begins the Hunt, Dean is unpredictable, and John deals with the aftermath. See you soon!_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	5. Chapter 5

_Here you go! Enjoy, and review!_

_**oooooooooooooooooooo**_

_Dean stood with his hands outstretched, cupped, half-leaning from the rickety white porch, allowing the steady stream of water from the rusted rain gutters pour into his hands, overflowing onto the flowerbeds below. Green eyes watched the droplets fall from the sky with contemplation blooming in them, a smile sweet and innocent gracing lips surrounded by slight stubble. _

_Sam almost didn't alert his brother to his presence, so content was he to watch Dean in this rare moment of peace. He had to, though. They really had to get moving. "Dean? It's time."_

_A light sigh. "Now?"_

_"Sorry."_

_"Hold on a second, Sammy. Try this. Really, it's a lot more fun than it looks." The slight tone of sarcasm made Sam smile, and he stepped up to the railing a few feet from his sibling, adopting a similar pose. The rain was coming down in torrents now, no longer the light shower it had been in its infancy a few hours ago, and in only a few seconds, Sam's hands were overflowing with water too. "See?"_

_Sam just grinned, and flung his handfuls of water directly into his brother's face, soaking his collar and hair. Dean stepped back, eyes open wide and dancing with shock that quickly morphed into mischief. He retaliated with an equally dousing shower of water, and that was it. Sam dashed off the porch, laughing, as Dean came at him with a fistful of mud he'd scooped up from the dirt walkway. It caught the younger Winchester right in the back, the once untainted cream color of his shirt now stained beyond repair. Sam stopped running, but Dean didn't. He slung one arm around his brother's neck and dragged him down face first into the mud, which wasn't allowable, so Sam resorted to fighting back, grabbing a fistful of the muckiest mud he could see and flinging his brother into it as hard as he could. _

_When they were both thoroughly sullied , both Winchesters, sitting criss-cross in the sludge, leaned back on their hands. Sam laughed breathlessly, a dollop of the dark mud sliding across his forehead to his cheekbone . "You know, we were supposed to have been out of here a half an hour ago."_

_Dean shrugged. "Who cares?" He looked up into the cold, dark sky. "It rained for a long time. I mean, Dad can't blame us if all the roads are closed because of the storm, right?" _

_"Are you suggesting we play hooky to the Hunt?" _

_"Me? Never. I'm just pointing out we have a good thing going here, Sammy."_

_"Sam."_

_"Samantha."_

_"You're such a jerk." _

_A wild laugh, and Dean allowed himself to fall backwards until he was sprawled in the mud. The rain had finally let up, a light drizzle all that remained. Sam followed suit. _

_"Sam?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Did you ever find out what that chick wanted?"_

_Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. He sat up and looked at his brother. "What chick?"_

_"You know, the one who let us stay in this place? I thought you knew her."_

_"Dean, I really don't know what you're talking about."_

_"Um…Mitchell? First name sounds French." _

_Sam felt his blood run hotter through his veins. "Eloise?"_

_"Yeah, her. You ever find out what she wanted?"_

_Sam swallowed down the confusion. Eloise Mitchell. "No, Dean. I guess not."_

_Dean rose to his feet, slowly, suddenly, the pupils of his eyes contracted to the point of near-nonexistence, wavering unsteadily as though in the grip of a sickness of epic proportions. Sam cried out and grabbed him by the shoulders just as they both started to fall, scrambling in the mud for a good foothold. As the two of them sank slowly to the earth, Dean's throat once again opened, that deep, dark smell of death clinging to his hair, the elder Winchester murmured something Sam almost didn't catch._

_"You're about to." _

Sam woke up with sweat drenching his shirt and dousing his hair, his heart pounding audibly in his chest. His father stood across from him with furrowed brows, worry etched in every line. "You okay, son?"

Sam pushed himself up, breathing hard. His father's truck. He was in his father's truck. Checked out of the hospital. Okay. He shook his head, trying to fling the dream's aftertaste away, as though the remnants of it would fly from the slightly curly ends of his damp hair. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. Just a weird dream, that's all." John clearly didn't believe him, but he stepped back. The truck door was open, parked somewhere, his father standing in the wide it created, hands on the upholstery of the front seat.

"We're lucky the doctor didn't have anymore questions. We never would have gotten you out of there so fast."

"What's the plan?"

"We put this place behind us."

"Where will we go?"

"Indiana. I rented an apartment up there yesterday over the web. We need a place to figure this out. A hotel isn't going to cut it."

"Probably not." Sam ran a trembling hand over his eyes, kneading them gently. He laid his head back against the soft seatback, stained and smelling faintly of coffee. He shot up, tense and aware all in an instant. "Where's Dean?"

"We're grabbing our stuff at the hotel. He's fine. He's loading the back. I just wanted to see if you were awake. Your brother's worried about all this, Sam. About you."

Sam snorted. "He should be worried about himself."

"You know that won't cross his mind, don't you?" His father paused. "But, are you really okay? If you want another day to rest…you and your brother…" It sounded weak, even to the oldest Winchester. He wasn't good, wasn't practiced at being a concerned father. Besides, Father-John was still battling ferociously against Hunter-John, as polar opposite as a schizophrenic's daydreams. He wanted to hunt. He wanted to get on that road, load a shotgun, and shoot something, preferably the Demon. But he also wanted Sam not to dream things that made him talk in his sleep, and he wanted Dean safe and secure somewhere. In the end, it made his attempts to say much of anything personable to his boys horrifically awkward.

"No. I'm alright. And Dean's not, but he won't admit it, so why bother asking?"

"Hey!" The door to Sam's other side opened, and Dean smiled brightly as he leaned forward. "Glad to see you're up, Sleeping Beauty."

"Dean, you scare me with how many Disney references you know."

"Yeah, whatever." He turned his attention from brother to father, tone changing noticeably from amiable affection to slightly-affectionate-roll-call-in-a-boot-camp. John's heart twinged. "That's everything. We're set."

"Good." John's eyes darkened, a shadow clouding his face as he climbed in and started the engine, revving it for emphasis. "We're putting this town as far away from us as we can get it."

_**ooooooooooooooooooooooooo**_

The apartment was one of the nicest the Wincesters had ever lived in. Three bedrooms, a full kitchen, a large bathroom with two sinks…all in all, the Hilton compared to their former accommodations. The only downside, the building was right next to a four-lane highway, which was why the Winchesters had been able to afford it. Sam dropped his duffel bag onto the light carpet and smiled. He couldn't deny it would be nice to sleep in his own room. He loved his brother, and usually loved his father, but Dean was a sprawler and John snored. Difficult for all three to share a room, which they had been doing for months, and still be able to sleep particularly well.

John shuffled in behind him, laden with his own bags, Sam's second duffel, and also a couple of Dean's. Dean tromped in after him grumbling, "…not going to break…carry my own bags…", or something like it, under his breath.

"You boys divy up the rooms however you want." John said, settling his own load onto the floor and going back outside for another.

Dean's eyes almost lit up, because try as they all might, no emotion ever really showed in Dean's corpse, and Sam thought he caught a glimpse of the four-year-old he once had been. "Like our own rooms?"

"Our own rooms." Sam confirmed. Dean snatched one of his bags off the floor and darting down the hallway, threw open one of the doors, and disappeared into it. "I call dibs on this one!" Sam smiled. The sound of his brother's voice, though muffled by a wall, was still a signal that all this was safe. They could settle here, if only for a few months. Sam envied his brother's ability to call anything home. Four years at Stanford and it had taken nearly three for him to get attached to anything in his apartment. Dean was here for five seconds and already, he was all _my room, my bed, my curtains. _

Sam laughed lightly and chose the door across the hall from his brother's. Stepping in, a wave of nostalgia gripped him intensely, the fingers of memory tightening slightly around his shoulders. A room. A compilation of knick-knacks, bedspreads, and carpet. The peace felt like Stanford. This felt like Stanford. All it was missing was a blonde with a smile like July mornings and a kiss as gentle as a butterfly's flight.

Jess.

It came suddenly, every time, the longing for Jess. They'd planned on getting married, having kids in a year. Names picked out already. Jocelyn for a girl, William for a boy. He'd entertained Dean, but decided that bringing up anymore of his family's history, especially that bit, was canceling out his attempts to shut that life away forever. But he'd loved her in a way he'd never loved anyone. If Jess had wanted to know exactly how many miles away the Taj Mahal was from California, Sam would have walked it, counting every mile, there and back, just to have her content.

Sam swallowed hard and forced the sound of Jess's laughter away. The wanting settled in his chest like lead, though, and stayed there for a long, long while, even after night fell, his family went to their respective rooms, and he gave in reluctantly to that realm called sleep.

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

Dean sat in his room and wondered why he couldn't sleep. When he tired of that, he made a list of all the girls he'd kissed. When he'd finished with that, he unpacked and repacked his suitcase. When he'd finished with that, he tried to do a handstand, failed, and practiced until he could.

All in all, Dean Winchester was bored out of his mind.

By three a.m., the traffic loud outside his window, Dean had decided on a course of action. His father's truck keys were on the table in the kitchen. His father's truck had a tape player. In the absence of his beloved Impala, his opportunities to blare Metallica and Blue Oyster Cult (salvage from his baby's mangled form) had diminished significantly. That, he reflected, was at least one upside to this whole 'walking corpse' thing. When you didn't need to sleep, but the rest of the world did, you could do pretty much whatever you wanted to. Silently, he slipped from his bed, grabbing his dagger just in case, and padded lightly across the kitchen floor, muffling the slight jangle his father's keys made by clenching them in a firm grip. He unbolted the front door, careful not to disturb the double layer of salt that protected it.

Then it all changed.

His vision blurred for a moment, the world bending and twisting, writhing in the confines of his vision. Dizziness warped his thought process, and for a moment, he could have sworn he was back in Lawrence. And then it came, a black haze that smelled like sulphur, moving with precise swiftness to push him out of the way. He fell back, his arm striking the table beside the sofa, crying out in surprise more than pain as he watched another bloodless gash appear on his arm. The cloud writhed on the ceiling for a moment, then darted toward the hallway, slipping under the second door on the left.

Sam.

Dean rose to his feet, his body adapting to the hunt out of pure muscle memory. His footfalls were hard and loud against the wood flooring. He jerked the doorknob to the side, cried out for his father when it didn't open. He pounded a flat palm on the solid doorframe, the resounding crack of skin against wood resonated in his ears.

"Dean, what---" John stepped quickly and grabbed Dean's shoulder, worry crinkling his eyes. Dean pulled away, raised a leg to kick the door in, wordlessly making his panic evident by the hectic sporadity of his movements.

"It's in there!" He finally said, rearing back for one powerful thrust.

"What's in---" He didn't get to finish, though, because Sam opened the door, rubbing his eye with one hand, his flannel bottoms and white t-shirt rumpled with sleep. He took in his brother, still poised to bash his door in, and his father, with a decidedly confused look on his face and frowned deeply, pushing a yawn to the back of his throat.

"Dean? What's wrong?"

Sam didn't get his answer, though, because his brother's eyes were fixed on something behind him, watching it, his eyes moving to follow its movements the way a child watches a bee in flight, quick turns of emerald orbs.

"Sam." The youngest Winchester knew that tone. It was the tone that meant _I'm not kidding around here; that werewolf is right behind you_. Sammy knew to listen to that tone. It always lead to trouble when Sam didn't. Silently, Dean drew his dagger from its hiding place at his hip, the quiet hiss of metal against the cotton of his pajamas making every sound come a little sharper.

"Dean?"

"Dad, get the gun."

John started. "What gun?"

Dean's eyes were completely dull, the most dead they had ever seemed. His voice was pale, weak, barely strong enough for a whisper. "The Colt."

John stood behind his oldest, peering into Sam's room, following Dean's gaze. His jaw dropped a little, surprise etching itself firmly into the corners of his eyes. He dropped his gaze to his son's face, which was rapidly losing what little color it had possessed. His own voice was quiet. He shifted his position to block the doorway from his son's view. Dean swore and started to push his father aside, dagger at the attack-ready position. John grabbed his oldest's shoulders, shook him slightly. "Dean, are you with me?"

"Dad, it's in there, I can see it! Let go of me!"

"Dean, you awake? You with me?" He paused, watched Dean's face turn to incredulity. "Dean, there's nothing in there."

Dean glanced past his father. The haze still swirled, and now there was a flare within it that Dean instinctively knew was laughter. He opened his mouth to vehemently contest his father, when without warning, it shot toward him, thrust him against the wall, slamming his head backwards. Dean heard rather than felt his teeth puncture the tip of his tongue. Weakness gripped him and he slid towards the floor, dropping to his knees, vaguely wondering why words sounded so faint now.

"Dean, stop it! What are you doing!" Sam dropped to his knees, at Dean's side in an instant, had his arm across his brother's chest, holding him pinned against the wall. "You're going to hurt yourself!" Sam's mind flew. His brother had been staring like there was someone there, someone in his room, and as a result, had just thrown himself against the wall. Of his own power. A willful forward then backward-hard motion.

"Dad, shoot it! Shoot it!" Dean was verging on hysteria, as the demon pulled him away from Sam, slammed him again, harder.

Sam had just watched his brother throw himself with all his strength against the wall and blame it on something else, and he watched in horror as Dean leaned slightly forward and jerked backwards again, with similar intent. His father was there though, a gun in hand, cocked and shot all in one motion, harmlessly into the air. At the loud snap of gunfire, Dean stopped and fell forward into his brother's arms, his form loose and relaxed. All three Winchesters sat silent for a moment, shocked into inactivity. After several fluttering heartbeats of Sam, Dean pulled away, met Sam's gaze with question flecked in the green of his own.

"What's happening to me?"

_**oooooooooooooooooooooooo**_

"_You lied to me!" Sam screamed, his arms rigid with fury. The Demon cocked an eyebrow._

_"I didn't lie."_

_"The deal was you left my brother alone if I found that woman."_

_"Yes, that was the deal."_

_"Then where do you get off making him slam himself into walls!" _

_"Two days, Sam, two days you've been out of that hospital, and have you found her? Even started looking? No? Then your brother's fair game. For now, only my toy. But if I don't see serious progress within the week, I'll let others in on the playtime. You got all that, Sammy?" _

_"Don't you touch him. Ever. Again. You got all that, Demon?"_

_The Demon laughed. "I hardly think you're in the position to threaten me. Right now, your brother's in his room. Your daddy's there too, but he wouldn't be a problem. What should I do next? Make Dean throw himself from the window?" The Demon felt Sam's power rise, a fierce, black wave cresting white with intent to kill. The boy healed fast. "Just do what you said you'd do. It's that simple."_

_"I meant what I said. About my brother."_

_"So did I, Samuel. So did I. There's a storm coming. You, and I, have to be prepared for it. Things have to be in order. There's a schedule to follow here. I don't want you damaged, and step one of seeing that come true is ending Eloise Mitchell."_

_"Of course you want me damaged. You want me dead. That's why you killed mom, and Jess. Because they stood in the way. Of me."_

_"If I wanted you dead you'd be dead. No, you I want safe. But your family? Completely expendable. So just do what you're told." _

_The Demon disappeared and left Sam's mind whirling with questions. _

Sam opened his eyes to the sound of his brother and father speaking in the next room. Silently, he reached for his laptop and with practiced ease hacked into the local library's database.

He typed in "_Mitchell, Eloise_" and sincerely hoped she'd be easy to find.

Easy to kill.

_**ooooooooooooooo**_

****

_Thanks for reading! A longer chapter, for sure!_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	6. Chapter 6

_Here is chapter six! I am glad you are enjoying the story!_

_oooooooooooooooooooooooo_

"Sammy, I've been thinking."

"God help us."

"Ha ha, you're hilarious. Now shut up and listen."

"Really, Dean, I'm kind of busy at the moment."

"Right." A small spot of contemplative silence. "I have to show you something."

"Is this going to be like the last time you had to show me something? Because if it is--"

"I forgot about that. Good times, good times."

"You weren't the one naked on a frozen lake."

"And I never will be, because I'm smart enough to know that when someone says, 'You wanna go ice fishing?' you always say no."

"Seriously though, Dean, I'm really, really busy right now." Sam didn't spare a glance up from his computer screen. No time. There had been only a few hits on Mitchell, Eloise, and Sam had to comb them all with the utmost of care, keeping his eyes open for clues that would hint as to why the Demon would want this particular Eloise dead. The one he was currently reading pointed at a halfway-house turned art academy run by an older woman named Eloise Mitchell. In Indiana. In the next town over. That didn't leave a whole lot of time for banter with his brother.

"Yeah, Sam, and I'm really, really bored. We've been here, what, four days? And we haven't gone anywhere? I mean, it's killing me!" Both brother's froze. As could be imagined, death was a slightly tough subject to cover. Then Dean smiled slowly, morbid amusement spreading across his face. "No pun intended."

Sam sighed, saved the webpage in his favorites folder, lowering the screen a few inches to glare at his brother. "Okay. What."

Dean responded like a puppy that had just been given permission to jump up on the couch and lick his master's face. He was on the sofa across from his brother in an instant, brandishing a crinkled newspaper, stolen from their neighbor's doorstep. "Three words, Sam. Friends of Film."

"O-ka-y?" Sam drawled, waving his hand in a 'move along' motion, impatience making him snappy. He loved his brother, but he took forever to say anything, and most of the time, what he finally did say wasn't worth all the effort it took to coax it out.

"Friends of Film. As in classic movies back in the theatres that aren't there anymore."

"And?"

Dean smiled widely, opened to the entertainment section, thrust the paper into Sam's unprepared hands. Sam read the headlines and opened his mouth in disbelief. "You're joking, right?"

"Read it and weep, Sammy." Dean's face hardened. "We're going."

"No, we're not."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are---look Dean, I don't have time to go to the movie theatre to watch some lame, dubbed movie. Besides, Godzilla? We'd be the only adults in the entire theatre."

Dean looked like he'd been slapped across the face. Injured pride seemed to leak out of his ears. "Not Godzilla, Sam. Godzilla vs. Megladon. It's a classic."

"Classic or not--"

"S-aa-m!"

"Did you just whine at me?"

"You want to get out of this house as much as I do. All you've done for the past two days is sit on that laptop, and read. Don't you want to do something, College Boy? Don't you want to have a little fun?"

"Since when have you ever been 'screw responsibility, let's have fun', Dean?"  
Dean quirked an eyebrow. "I always have fun."

"Okay, the time in Arkansas. Wanted to go to dinner and a movie. And what did you say?"

"That was different."

"You said, 'Sam, we have more important things to do.' But now, I have something I have to get done and you blow it off?"

"Yeah, because we had to save people, Sam. I doubt whatever you've been reading on there's been anything that life-changing."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Dean." Sam's voice had dropped in pitch, that occurance that always marked a blow-up. It was that tone alone that told Dean he'd pushed too far. He backed up, careful to let his disappointment show. He felt bad for making Sam angry, but not bad enough to stop supporting his case. It was time for the guilt angle.

"I'll go myself, then."

Sam's head snapped up, alert as an antelope in a pride of lions. "What? Dean, no."

"Well, you won't go. And I am _not _going to miss this."

"Dad said you can't leave the house by yourself."

"Hmm. Guess somebody has to go with me then. And Dad's still at the library…hmm. I wonder who else could go?" Sarcasm dripped thick from his voice like syrup straight from the bottle. "Hmm."

"You're sick. You really are, man."

"So that's a yes?"

"It's going to have to be."

Dean started to laugh, but stopped at the uncomfortable look on Sam's face. His laugh had that affect on people, lately. His voice was odd enough, but at short bursts of air rasping against his broken throat , the sound was akin to a cat being strangled. Not particularly pleasant. He slipped his jacket on, adjusting his scarf over it. "Ready?"

"Yeah, hold on a second. Let me finish this article." Dean huffed, but sat down to wait anyway.

Sam shook his head and read on.

_Eloise Mitchell, founder of Mitchell Academy of Art, has run this school_

_for nearly twenty years. On the surface, she appears to run a school of the_

_Arts, targeting troubled teens, alchoholic fathers, and battered wives and children,_

_but underneath that first layer, is another. Mitchell not only teaches art,_

_but life as well. However, Mitchell's school_

_Is known in the local community for having a sense of secrecy about it. Alumni_

_Are forbidden to speak of the inner workings of the school, and--_

Sam scanned the article upwards, seeking out the address. He jotted it quickly onto a piece of paper. _Mitchell Academy of Art, 176 Chesapeake Dr., Frolin, Indiana. _"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Where is the theatre?"

"Um…Frolin. Twenty miles from here. Why?"

"No reason. Is Dad's truck still stocked? He didn't unload the weaponry, did he?"

"Of course not. Why, you need protection for the movie?"

"No. Let's go. We're going to be late."

_Oooooooooooooooooo_

"_Am I going after the right person?"_

_"Yes. About time too, Samuel."_

_"I get Dean back the second I pull that trigger."_

_"Of course."_

_ooooooooooooooooo_

Sam felt vaguely guilty watching his brother head into the theatre under his little brother's promise, 'I'll park, you find seats."

Sam doubted he'd see any of the movie. He put the car into drive, crawling through parking lot traffic, stopping occasionally to ask directins to the art academy. It was evidently somewhat of a controversy. Some people seemed thrilled to have another student come to call, while others seemed infuriated at the mere thought of another young person wasting their life with, as one mother of two exclaimed, 'a lying witch'. Nobody bothered to explain their opposition however, and Sam didn't ask.

It didn't take long to find the place, once he was in the right direction. When the paper said Academy, it wasn't joking. Mansion, more like it. It was an old, Victorian style mansion with terraces and floorspace abound. Thick vines curled and twisted up and over and around the several spire-like towers rising into the skyline. The driveway alone had to be as large as the Winchester's apartment building. His phone rang, the screen flashing 'Dean', in bright blue. Sam didn't answer. Didn't have time, as he pulled into the parking lot, because as soon as he'd turned the truck off, snatched a pistol from the trunk, and gotten a few steps forward, a tall, African-American man in a sharply tailored suit came at him, walking a little too briskly for Sam's taste.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so. I'm here to speak to Mrs. Mitchell."

"I'm sorry, you'll have to come back later. Mrs. Mitchell is occupied at the moment."

"Is there anywhere I can wait? It's urgent."

"No, I'm terribly sorry. I can take your name, and I can tell her you came to speak to her."

"It's Sam."

"Sam? Is that short for Samuel? Mrs. Mitchell prefers full names."

"Yeah, Samuel."

"Like the boy prophet."

"Uh…yes."

The man's phone jangled in his pocket. "Excuse me, please." He stepped a few feet off, his brow furrowing then smoothing out the lines just as quickly as they'd come. A bell rang, somewhere inside the building, and a few seconds later, students around his age came bustling out. Several of them had sweat running from their faces, soaking their shirts. Odd for an art college. The man hung up and headed toward him. By the look on his face, Sam got the sinking feeling he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

"Mrs. Mitchell's meeting ended sooner than anticipated. You're welcome to come inside, if you'd like."

"Ah…you know what? I think maybe I'd better come back later. I don't want to impose."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Mitchell is already waiting for you. She's likely to be upset if she doesn't see you now."

"Right." Yeah. Definitely more than he could chew.

Being led through the hallways of a school threatened nostalgia. Students bustled by, clutching their books and easels, chittering like flocks of birds as they moved along. Sam had once been one of them. He missed it, sometimes. Not even the social life, but the sheer joy of knowing he was heading into that classroom to be satisfied with knowledge. It was nice, that consistency. He certainly didn't have it anymore.

The waiting room he was led into was neatly but lavishly furnished. Everything was scarlet velvet and gold silk, draped from the ceilings and upholstered onto the chairs. The man knocked on a wide set of double doors, and after indicating Sam should sit, passed through them. The middle of each door was fogged glass, so Sam could see the darkness of the man's suit pacing back and forth before another blocky shape, probably a table. Sam looked down at his hands.

He wasn't ready for this. The drive over here, he'd had certainty in his lungs and determination in his blood, empowering him for a difficult task. But that had melted now that he was actually here. Despite the fact he'd put a silencer on the pistol and was reasonably certain a bunch of art students would never catch him, and he and his family would be able to blow this town once Dean was alive again, it didn't make him feel any more secure. Murder had certainly never been on his agenda. He, Sam Winchester, who had so vehemently forbidden his brother to make any kind of murderous motion towards Max Miller, was about to kill an innocent woman.

Hypocrisy, in its most blatant form.

The door opened wide. The man stepped out, adjusting his cuffs as he did so. "Samuel? Mrs. Mitchell is ready to see you now."

"Thank you." Sam's hands were sweating, slick with despair. He slipped past the man and jumped slightly as the doors closed behind him.

"Come in, Samuel. Take any seat you like." Behind a large, mahogany desk sat a woman whom Sam knew instinctively to be Eloise Mitchell. In her late sixties or early seventies, she hadn't given in to the "poodle-head" hairstyle, permed and short. Her long, graying hair was expertly woven into a single, thick braid trailing over her shoulder. Her crisply startched blouse was suitable, if not particularly fashionable. She was still incredibly slender. Her nails were painted red. Like blood, Sam thought. Just like blood. He chose the simplest chair in the room, which still looked too extravagant to be touched, let alone sat upon.

"Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell."

"I assume you have questions for me."

"Um…yes. I…I'd like to know about admission, please." Sam swallowed hard, his hand shifting to his pocket, where the pistol waited, cold and metallic for his touch to enflame it.

Eloise smiled. " Surely you want to know something else?"

"Well, can you tell me about campass?" Sam's finger jerked, flipping off the safety switch in his pocket.

Eloise pushed her chair back, rising to her feet. She came around to the front of the desk, leaning against it right in front of Sam, bending a little so their faces were on equal levels. The smile on her face was civilized, but Sam could see it easily becoming decidedly barbaric. "I mean don't you want to know why you? Why the Demon killed your mother? Why it chose to rip your family apart when there are so many others out there?"

Sam had the pistol out, aimed and cocked, himself backed away as far as he could get. "Christo!" He hissed. Eloise didn't flinch.

"You needn't be worried. But I'd put that away if I were you." She waited politely for him to put the gun away. He didn't. She shrugged, uncaring. "Very well. I'm willing to play that game." The shutters made a rattling hiss as they slammed closed, draps loosing themselves to cover the light from the room almost entirely. Sam almost didn't hear the locks on the door snap down over the pounding of his own blood in his temples. The gun flew from his tight grasp, coming to rest in the air just beside Eloise. She regarded it with contempt, and it settled lightly onto her desk. "Calm down, Samuel."

"Who are you?"

She ran her fingers lightly over her knees, dusting away lint. "Well, essentially, I am a failed attempt to create…_you_."

"_What_?"

"Perhaps you should sit again. You have questions. I have answers. We have a lot to discuss."

_Oooooooooooooooooooo_

Dean growled with impatience. Megladon was already dead. Sam had missed the epic battle. What kind of person missed something like that? He hefted himself out of his seat and charged out the double-doors. After all that fuss of "You can't go alone, Dean, it's too dangerous", Sam ditched him first chance he had. All Dean had wanted was some time to just be…brothers. Apparently, that was too much to ask of his worldly-wise sibling. He jogged into the parking lot, eyes scanning for his father's truck, swearing when he didn't see it, grinding his teeth together until they made a slight scraping noise. He fished his phone out of his pocket, hit number one on speed dial, shifting slightly from leg to leg with impatience.

He hung up as, "_Hey, you've reached Sam. I can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message, and I'll get back to you," _beeped out its final tone. Almost immediately, though, his phone vibrated in his hand, flashing his brother's number on the screen.

"Sam, where have you been?"

"Dean, I'm sorry." His brother's voice was shaky. Dean's brow furrowed and he moved a little away from the crowds beginning to filter out of the theatre and into the parking lot.

"Sam, where are you? Everything okay?"

"Uh…yeah, I'm okay. Movie over?"

"Yeah, thanks for the quality time together, by the way."

"Dean, I had to take care of something. Look, is there anyway you can call a cab home? I'm busy at the moment."

"Call a cab? Sam, where are you? Dad's going to be pissed enough we left the house at all, let alone the fact I let you run around with his truck!"

"I know, it's just…I think I…please, Dean, just call a cab."

"Sam, there's about a snowball's chance in hell that that's going to happen."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Dean could hear several voices, including his brother's, conversing, and he wondered how it was that Sam was already buddying up with somebody else. That little green monster of envy was just circling around, waiting to bite, so he kicked it in the face and let it scramble off. "Nevermind. We called one for you. Don't go anywhere, Dean."

"We? Sam, who--" The line went dead. Dean growled in the back of his throat, a sound of venting frustration. He stepped off the pavement and onto the cement of the long, white sidewalk. He glanced back of over his shoulder idly, looking for that tale-tell yellow paint that signified his ride home, where he was going to be chewed out like no other, for not only leaving the house, but leaving it alone. Being dead was an awful lot like being five. His phone rang again, read a number he didn't recognize. As he put it to his ear, murmuring hello, still looking behind him, his gaze fell on nothing of interest, some kids playing ball, a mother with a baby in her arms. Until he looked across the road.

There, with one finger bent and curling in a "_come hither_" motion, stood the Demon, in full black regalia. And in his other hand, pressed to his ear, was a small, black phone.

"Hello, Dean. I've been waiting."

_oooooooooooooooooooooooo_

_Alrighty! Next chapter, you all get answers to the burning questions of Sam Winchester, we unravel the mystery of Eloise Mitchell, and Dean has some problems to work out. Pretty big problems, actually. Don't forget to review! I love getting your comments._

_-Kim Who Knows_


	7. Chapter 7

_I keep forgetting to do this! I don't own Supernatural! And frankly, I'm glad I don't, because the show wouldn't be nearly as good, since I have no idea how to make a television show. Oh, well. Enjoy!_

* * *

"You obviously know me. Who are you? Really."

"Very well. I was six months old when my mother burned to death above my cradle. My father was already dead, and I was taken in by my aunt. I lived peacefully with her until the age of ten, when I discovered I could…get into people's heads."

"What do you mean?"

"I began to…hear people, know instinctively what they were going to say before they said it. And that was just the beginning. By the time I was sixteen, I could control the thought processes of complete strangers. I could hear who they befriended, who they loved, where they chose to eat, everything. Needless to say, my aunt was…disgusted. She disowned me. I moved here, and married a man named Jacob Mitchell. I didn't tell him about my abilities."

"I've been there."

"I'm sure you have." Eloise regarded him with empathetic eyes. Sam smiled faintly.

"Go ahead. I'm listening."

"We were married for a year and a half when the Demon came to our door. I didn't know what it was. The only time I had ever seen it was in my infancy. It told me that my time was now. It needed me. And it needed something from me." The older woman closed her eyes, her lips pressing into a firm line. "He took my husband."

"I'm sorry. Was he…like my mother?"

"No." Eloise moved on, hurriedly changing the subject. Sam let it go. "The Demon took me with him to a small town in Nebraska. He told me where I could find a man I was supposed to look at, to read, and tell him what he was thinking."

"And?"

"I was nervous. The Demon had all the cards. I was eighteen, just a girl. I'd played with my abilities, but I had never used them, not really." Eloise's fingers trembled. "I destroyed him. That man's mind melted to jelly underneath my touch. The Demon seemed disappointed and left me. I made my way back here and here I stayed."

Sam nodded. "I'm sorry."

"And this brother of yours? He was injured too by the Demon?"

"Something like that."

Eloise smiled. "I know what you're thinking." She tapped her temple. "Mind-powers and all that. You needn't worry. You're not the first lured here by false promises by the Demon. You're not the first young man to point a gun at me." Sam balked. "We've sheltered families here before, families of our kind. Bring your brother here. We aren't powerful on our own against the Demon, but he hasn't ever set foot on our soil, either."

"Do you know a way to fix him?"

"I might."

That was good enough for Sam.

_

* * *

_

Dean didn't have time to move. A powerful, meaty hand clamped over his mouth and another across his chest and dragged him backwards, away from the sidewalk, where visibility was good, and kept dragging, until they were behind a bus, out of view of the rest of the world. The hands didn't let go, and even though Dean kicked and scratched and writhed, they only clamped down harder. The Demon came casually around the side of the bus a moment later, smiling triumphantly. Dean arched his back and twisted at the same time, a surefire way of getting free. The hands let go, and the middle Winchester danced away out of reach. It didn't last, though, because the Demon extended a hand and the resistance, that fight or flight urge in Dean's head melted away long enough for the hands to retain their hold. The Demon put his face a mere inch or two from his quarry's.

"Enjoy your movie? You know, I rather like that one myself, although the dubbing is a little contrived."

Dean responded, but his voice was muffled beyond recognition by the hand covering them, which Dean had seen when he'd broken away belonged to a man at least 6'7" and twice his girth, who had eyes as black as night. That was probably a good thing, because what he'd said would have gotten him into more trouble, anyway. The Demon lifted one hand, unwound the scarf around Dean's neck reverently, letting out his breath in one light sigh. "I do such good work, you have to agree." He scanned Dean's face with amber eyes. "Death becomes you." He waved his hand flippantly. "Let him talk, he has no one to cry to."

"What do you want?" Dean hissed as soon as the fleshy hand was away from his lips, though the powerful arms still clenched him close.

The Demon eyed him the way a collector eyes a Monet. "You turned out so well. I was afraid you wouldn't."

"I said---"

"Shhh--I know what you said." He moved in, closing the gap between himself and his prey with three steps. "I wish it had been you. I wish you'd have taken it. You're not like your brother, not so cold, are you?" The Demon brushed Dean's cheek with one slender finger. The middle Winchester shut his eyes, shuddering with revulsion. The finger slipped down to lift the medallion around Dean's neck, catching the string and pulling it forward into plain view. "Gud-elim. The god who holds aloft the sun. Fitting that you should wear it."

"Leave my family alone."

The Demon's face twisted into mock surprise. "I don't see your family here. And for the moment, they're safe."

Dean stared back, stoic and dark. He felt the chest of the man who held him rumble as he said, "Father, why do you waste your time on this one? It isn't him."

"No, but he has…other uses. Give him to me." Dean prepared to struggle as the large man released him and the far smaller Demon reached forward. He managed to twist out of reach for a moment, but the Demon's child punched him hard in the chest, hard enough to knock him backwards and straight into his enemy's arms. With strength inhuman, the beast held him against his chest. "Are you ready, Dean?" The Demon's hand clenched around the golden amulet, feeling the ridges of it carefully with his fingertips. "On the count of three. One, two--"

Dean didn't remember three, because suddenly, the world came to a screeching hault.

_

* * *

_

"So, you're him, then." Eloise's dark brown eyes watched Sam carefully, scanning him, instense enough to make the youngest Winchester uncomfortable. More to herself than to him, she murmured, "You're so young."

"You said you could answer my questions."

"And I can. Ask away."

"Why…is all this happening? What does he want with us?"

"You mean, we FALLEN."

"Fallen?"

"The ones the Demon chose, you, me, hundreds of people like us. We are FALLEN, because we are neither human nor supernatural. We include those who help us as well under the same title, because we have simply…fallen from grace." She smiled sadly. "When you meet others, you'll understand."

Sam felt another surge of questions, but surpressed them quickly. He had to cover the basics first, get what answers he could in case the situation went sour and he had to retreat. Eloise had an air of unpredictability that his training couldn't ignore or accept. "Yeah. We FALLEN."

Eloise lowered her head, her braid falling forward across her shoulder, draping itself there like a band of silver ribbon. "It's complicated. It's not a matter of randomly choosing women with babies and ending their lives over the cradle. I know you've probably thought that, but it's not true. The Demon is smart, Samuel. Smarter than we can even comprehend. He has all the cards. You, and me…he was scoping out our bloodlines for centuries before our parents even met, and…" She paused, watching Sam's face for confirmation he was ready for all the answers. She apparently found it, because a moment later she said, "There's evidence he even chose parents for us. Chose matches that combined all the right ingredients, per se."

"But why us? Why those specific bloodlines?"

Eloise pursed her lips. "I have met hundreds of FALLEN, Samuel. Hundreds. At least two hundred are within the walls of this school right now. All of us have a common history in connection with peri. You are familiar with that term, peri?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Supernatural beings believed to malevolent."

"You know your trade." A light nod. "Winchester's an English name, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"We all have common history, though we are not of the same ethnic descent. You and I have connection with the witchhunts in the early 1300's. He was behind those, did you know that? Possessing powerful men to condemn innocents who had the capacity to expose him? Those men and women burned as witches were members of the FALLEN, though they didn't call it that yet. Not with abilities, but they would have been on our side, for certain."

Sam swallowed hard. "No. I didn't know."

"We are the descendants of those innocents. The other FALLEN are like us, with ancestorial stories similar to our own."

"But why go through all that trouble? If he's as all powerful as he sounds, couldn't he just pick random babies and give them the same abilities?" Sam paused, a thought bubbling to his lips. "He did give them to us, right? I mean, we're not naturally…"

"Freaks? No, no, he gave them to us. All the matchmaking was simply to ensure we came from good stock. Murdering out mothers was symbolic, an ending of those that gave us life, a reassurance to himself that he was now our only life-giver. Besides, maternal, feminine instinct is too strong. A woman will fight harder to save someone close to her, especially her family, than most men would ever think to. When they get in the way, it's easier just to kill them than to deal with the headache."

"But why create us at all?"

"You are familiar with ancient history, are you not?"

"Familiar enough."

"Good. In ancient times, when the time came that two opposing forces came to war against each other, there were rules that had to be followed." Eloise paused, then frowned, switching directions. "In ancient warfare, there was a basic military structure. The elements included the Soldier, at the bottom of the ladder, those men who fought hand to hand. Secondly, the Watchman, and he alone could see ahead of the rest of the army, who knew what was coming in advance and was able, therefore, to stop certain courses of action. Thirdly, the Commander, the best, smartest, and most respected general on the field. He held the power to command _all _the troops. Fourth, the Standard Bearer, he who maintained the ideals that all those under him fought for, and at the top of the ladder, the Monarch, whose importance was monumental, the master of all other positions, the most important player. The war revolved around the Monarch."

"What does this have to do with us?"

Eloise leaned forward, her eyes sparkling chocolate. "There's a storm coming. He's said that to you, I'm sure. He's _breeding _us, Samuel. Breeding us into his army. Breeding us for specific positions within it. For his war."

Sam's heart pounded in his chest, his mouth dry and his palms damp. "His war for what?"

The windows fluttered back open, the curtains drawing aside as if by their own violation to expose the rich Indiana landscape. "This, Samuel. All of this. He wants our world as his own, our bodies as his own. He's going to open the gates, and we are going to help him do it." Her eyes glinted. "In theory."

"Open the gates?"

"The spirit world exists all around us. We simply can't see it. Those monsters you hunt are those who have mistakenly crossed the boundry between our plane and theirs. But he wants to open a pathway between both worlds, allowing his kind to ravage our civilization. He'll take our bodies for his own. They have corporal form, demons, but they cannot maintain them, and they cannot feel. Not really. They don't know what touch feels like, what affection feels like, and that is why they want us. And that's why as many of the FALLEN have gathered here. We're learning, preparing. We won't go without a fight."

Sam swallowed hard. This was big. Bigger than he'd expected. "Do you know…when this happens?"

Eloise turned her head to the side, looking at him with pity in her eyes. "Now that we've found you?" Her eyes darkened, and Sam felt her mind brush his own. "I am so sorry, Samuel. You aren't ready for this, I know. Your abilities, they're still so green. You can't even control them yet. I have teenagers in this school with powers further along than yours. But it's time you knew." She stopped for a moment, rocking back onto her heels, her hands fumbling with a band around her finger thoughtfully. "You play chess don't you?"

"I learned once."

"In chess, when the king is captured, the game is over and the opposing team has won."

"Right."

"You must capture the king or the game is lost. In fact, the entire objective of the game is to capture the king."

"Yes, but--"

"In war, when the Monarch is captured, the rules are the same." She brushed his mind again, and this time, Sam heard her voice clearly and powerfully in his own head.

**::You are the Monarch, Samuel. He is coming for you.::**

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Hoped you enjoyed it!_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I don't own. _

_Thank you all for your very kind reviews! Although, H.T. Marie, where have you gone? _

* * *

"_You aren't going to win, you know." Sam smiled triumphantly into his morning coffee, which, all of Dean's opinions aside, was not effeminate. Men drank lattes too. His brother looked at him blankly. _

_"Au contrare, little brother. See, you're not one to talk. You lost to me in Michigan."_

_Sam frowned. "I did not."_

_"Oh, yes. Lost like a girl. So you shouldn't talk smack. It'll come back to haunt you." _

_"Dean, I didn't lose to you. I had to forfeit because if you recall, your arm was squirting all over the place, and I had to stitch it so you wouldn't bleed to death."_

_Dean snorted derisively. "Forfeit, lose, it's practically the same thing." Sam was about to argue the point that no, they weren't the same thing, and yes, Dean was going to lose, when the waiter, a middle-aged man with a shining bald scalp, deposited a check on the corner of their table. The older Winchester took a swig of his steaming black coffee, swirling it in his mouth to savor it, and looked pleadingly at his sibling. Sam shook his head, but Dean stuck his lower lip out, a grown-up parody of a three year old. Sam rolled his eyes and reached for his wallet, handing his credit card with the name "Geoffrey Geraldo" scralled across it to the waiter. Dean smiled as the employee moved off, reveling in his success, and asked, "Where are we headed?"_

_"Well, I'm not really sure. There's a few spots over in New York, those look iffy, though. Um…there's a voodoo sect in Wisconsin…living dead in California…and that's about it. It's been a quiet week in Creepyville." _

_"Guess so." He slid easily out of the booth, slipping his jacket over his shoulders. "We should get moving. I vote California. I could use warmer weather. This Vermont weather…" He shook his head sadly. "These poor Vermontians." He paused. "And by the way, Sammy, I will win, because I'm older. And that makes me always win." _

_"You're the only person I ever met who cared so much about a thumb war, Dean." The tone was condescending, but the smile on his brother's face told the older sibling that there wasn't any truth in it. He smiled back, and the two of them---_

---Agony! The Demon was _in,_ raping his mind, tearing through memories and emotions faster than Dean could comprehend what was happening. He struggled madly, but the power of the darker creature was too much, like claws ripping gray matter until it was---

"_Mommy, I drew it for you!" Mary turned and looked at her son with a smile on her lips. Her approval turned to confusion as she looked at his masterpiece however. It was nothing but an array of scribbles and lines. _

_"Dean, it's beautiful!" He beamed at her, a ray of sunshine through closed curtains. "It's a lovely…" She'd have to take a guess, "…house."_

_The boy's eyes looked hurt, big and hazel with puzzlement at his mother's mistake. "It's Daddy." _

_"That's what I meant!" And the world was right between them again. She bent and took the drawing, holding it up, and Dean was proud, because his mother had said---_

---No! The Demon hissed in his head, frustrated. Dean could feel it even through the pain of the mental intrusion. "You know where it is, boy! Tell me where it is! You wear the insignia around your neck, so you can't lie!" The search continued, agonizing, tearing, no, no, no, Sam, where are---

""_Dean! Dean!" Sam Winchester dashed into the crumbling house and threw his books on the counter, not bothering with the mess it made. "Dean!" The house was small, so it wouldn't take long to find his brother if he were home. Quickly checking all the likely places, and some of the extremely unlikely ones as well, namely, under the porch, behind an electric mixer, and on the roof, Sam found himself at last in the small bedroom both boys shared. Dean sat on the bed, a paper in his hand under scrutiny, until Sam flung his ten-year-old frame against him, laughing and brandishing his own piece of paper. "Dean, look! A's! Straight A's!" _

_Dean took the report card, careful not to crinkle the paper. "Wow, Sammy, that's great! You must have worked really hard." _

_"I did! And I got A's!" Sam did an awkward dance on the bed, stealing back his report card and waving around in circles like a banner._

_Dean watched him, then slid his own report card, two A's and the rest B's, which he had slaved for in between hunts, under the bed. Sam deserved the glory today, and John wouldn't ask about Dean's report card once Sammy had proudly showed his own. _

_Dean didn't work for grades again after that. _

_Years later, when Sam got on the bus for Stanford, and Dean watched him go, all he could think about was how, if he had been willing to take some of the glory for himself, he would have been the one getting on that bus, and---_

_---_And the Demon pulled out. Dean's knees gave way, crumbling of their own volition beneath him. The Demon let him go, let the middle Winchester's head slam against the pavement. It could have hurt if Dean's mind hadn't already felt like it had been torn apart, that the Demon hadn't already been within his head, memories and emotions wrung dry.

"It's impossible. He wears the insignia! He must know where it is."

"You didn't find it, father?"

"No. Mary was a clever wench, I'll give her that. He knows the location of that gate, but even sifting his mind I couldn't find it. She told him in some kind of code, I'm sure." The Demon cursed in his native tongue. He looked down at the man at his feet, than reared back and kicked his prone form with one foot, hard in the chest. Dean groaned, tried to sit up. His mind felt like it was bleeding, though he could feel strength returning slowly.

"Hey! Hey, you! What are you doing!?" A different voice, a stranger's voice. The Demon's head snapped up.

"Go!" He hissed at his offspring, and the possessee pounded away. The Demon glanced down. "I will have that location, Dean. I will." And he was gone. Dean closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the pavement. An instant later, there was a worried face above him, an older man, shaking his shoulders, pleading with him to give a name, tell him that it was okay.

Dean didn't have an affinity for older people, but he'd never been happier to see one in his life.

_Oooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Kevin Graham, at age fifty-two, had driven the public bus for ten years in the small Indiana town. It was a ho-hum occupation that suited his personality. There were only three regular people who rode the bus anyway; Millie, the old woman with a hip so bad she couldn't drive or walk, Mark, a struggling businessman whose car had been repossessed, and Andy Stiles, who was blind in one eye and wasn't allowed to have a liscence. He'd come around the corner with Mark, who'd met him for lunch, and there'd been these three men standing next to his bus. At first, he let it go, because it was probably just some family dispute, and then the youngest one had gone down, cracking his head hard against the pavement. But when the other man had just prodded him uncaringly with one foot, Kevin knew this was no family. As soon as he cried out, the other two split faster than a jackrabbit chased by a fox. The young one didn't move. Kevin was on his knees beside him in an instant.

"Kid, hey! You okay? They mug you? You got a name, kid? Mark, go call somebody!" The businessman in his thirties nodded, shell-shocked, and moved a few feet away, dialing the local police in an instant. There was little response from the victim, until the hazel eyes opened wide to look at him in confusion. There was so much pain in them, Kevin was at a loss. "Oh, wow." He breathed to himself. "Look, I'm gonna go get you some help, okay, kid? Mark, they sending a unit?" He started to his feet, but a youthful hand caught him by the shin.

"No." The voice was raspy, but audible and adament. "No. I'll be…okay. Just give me a minute."

"Really, kid, I think…" The young man shifted a little. His leather lapel, which had slipped off one shoulder and fallen across his collarbone, shifted and Kevin started praying every prayer he knew. The kid's throat was slit clean across, and even though there was no blood, it couldn't be good. He swore in desperation. "We gotta get you inside. I'm gonna lift you, okay? I got you." An ambulance would have been better, but the ambulances in small town Indiana were slow in coming, and this kid couldn't wait. He hoped his bedside manner was keeping the kid calm. After all, that's what his deceased wife, a nurse of twenty years, would have said. _Keep him calm, Kevy, keep him calm. _He slid one hand under broad, youthful shoulders and another beneath lax knees, hoping his back would hold (the kid was built), and started to lift. With a weak hand, the young man pushed away. "Don't worry, I got you, kid. I'm just trying to help."

"I'll be okay." He shivered and brought one hand up to massage a temple.

"Alright, they're sending a unit." Mark approached, cautious. The kid growled in frustration.

"I told you--" Kevin left the arm around his shoulders, lifted the struggling patient up to a sitting position. The vertigo was almost experienced by the bus driver; the kid swayed like a tree in a tornado. "It's not that bad." He looked up, searching for something. He indicated a thick black scarf against the pavement a few feet away. "Give me that, please."

Kevin, at a loss, did as he was asked. The kid slipped it around his neck, hiding the wound from view. He attempted to rise, but fell back hard onto his tailbone. A string of curses bubbled out, frustration coming off him in waves.

"What's your name?" Hazel eyes scrutinized him carefully. Kevin had the distinct memory of going under a metal detector. Apparently, he passed the test.

"Dean."

"Well, Dean, you wanna tell me what just happened to you? You can tell me while we get you inside. It's cold out, and you're…well…Mark, help me lift him." The other man nodded, rolling up his suit sleeves. Dean didn't protest this time, but let them half-drag him to his feet. Kevin was glad, because the kid looked like he'd been through hell and back. "Land, what'd they do to you, kid?"

"I'm not sure, actually." Dean swayed a little, and Mark had to readjust his grip to hold him. "Let go."

"What?" Mark shook his head, vehemently. "Come on, let's just go inside and wait for the police."

"I said let go."

"Don't say I didn't warn you." The older men backed off, and Dean stood of his own power, feeling stronger by the second.

"There, see? I'm fine. Now you can go back to whatever you were doing before, okay?" His mind throbbed, thoughts spinning disconnectedly around and around and around…he put a hand on the bus to steady himself.

"At least let us call someone for you. I mean…your throat…you must be, like, Superman, or something." Kevin nodded in agreement.

"Will you leave me alone?" Dean scrutinized both of them, a cat questioning a dog's motives.

"When we know someone's coming for you. I…understand you might not want to talk about what just happened here, I mean, those guys could have been perverts…" Mark trailed off.

Kevin stepped in and finished for him. "So we ain't leaving you here, kid, for those pervs to come back for you."

"You can call my father. He'll come for me." _I'm not leaving you alone anymore, Dean-o. _"He'll come for me."

_Ooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Eloise paused. "Your phone is ringing, Samuel." The two of them were in one of the classrooms, an astounded Sam watching as several students, FALLEN, sat in complete silence, listening to a teacher that was silent as well, lecturing in their minds without any kind of vocalization. Possibly the strangest tour Sam had ever been on, except for the Museum of Dead Rock Stars Dean had dragged him on.

Sam started. The phone said, "Dad" in big, bold letters. "Um…excuse me for a second." The class all looked at him, apparently upset he'd used his voice. He slipped out the door and into a polished hallway. "Hello?"

_"_Samuel Winchester!"

Sam knew that tone. It was the tone that meant if Dean didn't intervene, father and son would come to blows, inevitably and always. "What?"

_"_When I give you an order, you follow it, understand? So when I said to you, stay home with your brother, what did you think I meant?"

Sam had one chance. Blame their leaving on Dean, and pretend he was still with his brother. "Sorry. Dean was climbing the walls, and we just went to a movie---"

"You never went to a movie! And you weren't with Dean, or none of this would have happened!" His father reached into his vocabulary and pulled out his deepest profanities, screaming them in fury.

"What happened?" No use in pretending anymore. "Is he okay?"

"Sam, the Demon found us. It found your brother."

_No, no, no, this is my fault, I left him. _"He hurt?"

"Not physically, no thanks to you. But it screwed with him somehow, Sam. He can't keep his feet." Sam felt sick, suddenly.

"Is he there? Let me talk to him."

"No. Now you get home, or I swear--" 

A hand on Sam's shoulder startled him. Eloise was looking at him with sad, brown eyes. "He found your brother, didn't he?" Sam nodded, feeling ice cold guilt swelling in his throat. "You bring him here, Sam. We'll take care of it."

Sam nodded, grateful. This woman had saved his family. In theory. "Dad, I don't want to fight about this." Surprised silence from the other line. "I think I might have a lead on how to help Dean. That's what I've been doing this whole time. And you're right, I shouldn't have left him…"

"At least you know that, Sam." 

"You in a cab?"

"Public bus, actually. Some guys rescued your brother and are giving us a ride home. You're lucky we dodged the police, Sam, or this could have gone even worse than it already is." 

"Come to this address." He rattled it off, hoping beyond hope that whatever Eloise had said might help, would be his miracle. He needed a miracle. He needed Dean. "I'll be waiting here for you."

"We're on our way. And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You get an apology ready for your brother." 

The line disconnected.

_Ooooooooooooooooooo_

The Demon remembered.

"_I'm Mary, nice to meet you."_

He remembered the look in her eyes. The look when he went after her oldest. Differing slightly from the look when he went after her youngest.

"_Get away from my baby!"_

He remembered her big blue eyes, screaming hate at him, when he handed her that necklace.

"_I won't wear it. You can't force me."_

So he'd done just that, just to spite her. With Dean, a mere six months, cradled in the crook of his arm, dangling ever so slightly out the two-story window, he'd forced her. And he'd explained to her, that she should be happy. She'd given him a gatekeeper first, Dean, the one who'd hold the gates open while his kind poured through it, and that in another few years she'd give him a Monarch, Sam. What greater honor could she have had? **But he has to know, Mary, you have to tell Dean where it is, and give him that. It'll protect him until I need him. I'll protect him, Mary, don't be afraid. **

_"My son won't ever wear this. I'll make sure, you hear me!" _

And ten years later, when Dean had started to wear that necklace, the Demon had just smiled. And Mary's spirit sobbed.

"_No, Dean, no, don't you do this, baby, don't you do this!" _

And the Demon took great satisfaction in jeering in her face that her son, her noble, oldest son would destroy everything. And he took even greater pride in mocking her that her proud, younger son would be the one to rule in destruction, that Sam would belong to him so wholly that there would be nothing left of the man that had once been.

But now everything was wrong. Sam resisted him fully. And he'd raped Dean's mind, taken it so entirely that he now was possessor of every thought. But the gate's location was not there. For the first time, The Demon doubted his success, doubted he could defeat the Winchesters.

And now it was Mary who remembered, and it was Mary who mocked.

"_I told you, Raziel, I told you beast. Dean doesn't know he knows. I wouldn't let him know. And Sam is protected too, now. You have failed, Raziel!"_

No. He would not, he could not fail.

He'd kill them all before that happened.

And Mary was quiet.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Please review!_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	9. Chapter 9

_I know, I know, I'm late. Real life is busy; but lo and behold, my early graduation is nearly complete!! Whoo hoo! So onward to college next year for my English degree. _

_Once again, I do not own Supernatural. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Eloise expected Dean to be taller. 

Sam had spent the last hour with her explaining everything about his family, their profession, their personalities. He'd told her Dean was fast, really fast, and had green eyes. He'd said he could kick in an oak door in one try, could pick any lock, and was terrified of heights. He'd said that Dean was addicted to rock music, women, and infomercials.

She really had expected him to be taller.

But when he stepped off the bus, a man Eloise knew immediately to be his father (they shared the same square jaw, all three of the Winchesters) supporting him by one firm hand on his shoulder, he was really only a little above average height. Odd for someone who Sam seemed to think of as as being above him. But she prepared greet him cordially, graciously. She needed to make a good impression. They had to trust her if her plan were to be successful. But as she approached, Sam following reluctantly behind her, it became clear that Dean would trust her if Sam trusted her. It was the father she would have to win over.

"You must be Dean. I've heard a lot about you." That was the wrong thing to say. John shot a glance at Sam that plainly said _you told her about us, how could you, _and he stepped in front of his older son, extended his hand instead.

"John." His tone was decidedly hostile. Eloise smiled her most innocent smile, knowing her age would lend her an air of helplessness and a look of grandmotherly kindness that won most people over in the end. Their mistake, she supposed.

"Eloise Mitchell. I run the school here. I'm pleased to meet you. I'd like to speak to you, if that's alright. Privately."

"Of course. Sam, you wait here with your brother. We'll talk later." It was the tone of an adult moving to sit at the holiday grown-up table, leaving their children at the card table in the corner. Cries of protest came wailing from both of the younger parties, Sam appealing to Eloise. She raised a hand.

"Sam, your father's right." She brushed the oldest Winchester's psyche gently. There was an air of satisfaction that she respected his authority. Good. One victory was hers. "You're welcome to wait in the foyer, if you'd like. Ask anyone, they can direct you there." Dean looked displeased, but didn't argue. John handed the safekeeping of his oldest son to Sam pointedly with a look, then stepped into pace next to Eloise. She noted, an internal smile blooming, as they entered the building and began to ascend the large staircase, that he refused to walk behind her. Assertive, that one. He wanted her to know that he was the alpha male of the three-member pack, and that even though she technically was in charge on this property, one move and he could easily take control. Several students started to approach as they strode purposefully down the long marble hallways that led to her office, but stopped, their enthusiasm wilting like roses in the desert at a look from John. Sam, their Monarch, had been a dramatically influential addition to their resistance, but John…she wasn't sure how far the truth about his family would go over, but she hoped it would. The oldest Winchester had an air of command that would be infinitely necessary push in the right direction for the army of FALLEN. She hoped he could be persuaded to be on their side. Heaven knows they needed a man who could command.

"This is it. Please, have a seat." She breezed past him into her office, settling herself lightly onto the corner of her desk. Sam had seemed uncomfortable when she had tried to speak to him from her solemn position behind it, and she could tell now that that spicy tang of spirit in Sam's mind had come from his father. She could taste it on her tongue strongly, now that the source was here in front of her. He chose the simplest chair in the room, as his son had done, and leaned forward on it, a bear protecting his territorial crag. Eloise smiled to herself. That was right. A bear. It suited him.

"You said you could help my son."

"Which one." There were hidden meanings behind every word.

"The only one that _needs _help." _Are you implying something? _

"With the Demon on your trail, you all need help. Especially your children. Both your children." _This is over your head, John. You need me._

"I mean Dean. Sam says you can tell us a way to help him." _I will help him, he is my son, you stay out of it. Give me what I need and my family will leave, together. _

"No, I have a way to help Dean. I am the only one who has the connections to pull this off. I need you to come with us, in case things go sour, though." _You're powerless here. But I'm offering you a chance to be a part of this. _

"What's your plan?" "_Are you implying I can't take care of my own children? They're _my _children!_

"It's complicated. There's a coven a hundred miles from here. I think I can persuade them to make a deal. They can find your son's soul. There's a few Shtriga there with them; a simple task, really. The coven comes to life around dusk. We'll need to leave before then. After that, the only hard part is getting the Demon to give it back up."

The silent conversation was over. John shot to his feet, planted both hands on her desk, towered over her like the bear inside was preparing to swat her with one, massive paw. "The Demon!? The Demon has my son's soul?"

"Sam didn't tell you."

He slammed one fist against the desk, turned his back on her, his teeth ground together. "No!" He swore loudly, threw himself back into his chair. "Who does he think he's protecting?!"

"His brother, for one. You, for another. There's a lot more at stake here than just Dean's soul."

"And how did you become such an expert?" He snarled, his anger directed more at his son that at her.

"We should talk. There's a lot you don't know."

_

* * *

_

Sam tapped one foot on the marble floor incessantly. Dean half-sat, half-lay on the couch across from him, one hand coming up to work at his temples before settling back to his side. He had a speech prepared, an apology speech that would have made Winston Churchill stand up and cheer. This seemed like a good opportunity to use it. The next time Dean's eyes met his, he sat up straight and began.

"Dean, I--really, it was--I didn't have--I'm sorry." He finished lamely. The Winston Churchill in his brain booed.

"Don't. It's fine." Body language said otherwise, but Dean didn't consider body language solid evidence of anything, so Sam couldn't use it against him. Crap. That hadn't turned out well.

"Really, Dean. I shouldn't have left you. It was wrong of me."

"Sam, I already said it's fine, so it's fine, alright!?" Dean's eyes flared emerald for a moment, but whirled back to muted hazel as he sat up straight. "Besides, you hate that movie anyway."

"Yeah, but you've sat through about a million emo lovefests."

Dean nodded slowly, and the air between them cleared a little. "Screamo lovefests, actually."

Sam laughed, relieved. "Yeah, I guess they were a little screamo."

They smiled together. Sam looked at his brother for a moment, a sorrow unexplainable welling up in his throat. "But seriously, I'm sorry. What…what happened?"

"I'm not sure, exactly."

"What'd he do?"

"Got in. My head, I mean. Looked around, shook things up a while, muttered about some gate," --Sam started-- "And left. Some old guy rescued me and…here we are." He lay his head back against the thick, scarlet couch cushion. "I really need a beer. And a bed." He paused a moment, reconsidering. "Well, technically, I need blood circulation to get drunk, so never mind."

"You feeling any better?"

"Loads."

"Right." _A gate. _"Dean?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"How much do you trust me?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"A viable one."

"Not really, but I'll play along. Okay, Samantha, I trust you, your estrogen fest about over?"

"If I tell you something, do you promise to believe me?"

Dean sat up, consternation knitting his brows together. "What are you talking about?"

"Promise?"

"Yes, okay, I promise! Now you going to tell me what's going on?"

Sam felt the words against his tongue, and the taste of them was metallic and bitter. He told his brother the story about the end of the world, about countless men and women all puppets moved by a master puppeteer, all leading to this culminating point, all leading to them. He left out the part about a few hours ago when he'd had a gun pointed at an innocent woman's head for his brother's sake, and didn't feel guilty about it. Dean didn't need anymore emotional trauma. He pointed out the part about the gate with emphasis. And when Dean's face turned ashen and his eyes were wide, Sam stopped. "And now, you apparently have something to do with that gate between the worlds, so if you could get that look off your face and give your input, here, Dean, it'd be nice. Anytime."

Dean blinked slowly. "Dude."

"Yeah." Sam scuffed his shoe against the floor. "So what'd the Demon say about it?"

"That I knew where the gate was."

Sam looked up, startled. "And do you?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

"But apparently, Mom did."

A bell rang somewhere above them, and Sam frowned. It hurt his ears. He grimaced as the sound grew and grew, until it was a wailing in his brain, swelling and undulating, pounding furiously against his skull, wild and untamable. The world swirled as he felt his seat on the couch slide away and he pitched forward toward the floor. He raised his head long enough to see Dean reaching for him before--

_The air was cold and tasted like winter. There was left-over snow from last night's snowfall covering the sidewalks, but melted from the roads, leaving them bare and empty. The town was small, small enough that the woods came almost right to the road, thick and ominous trees. A solitary figure waited beneath the glow of a streetlamp. A man, tall, lean rubbing his hands together to create a spot of warmth. He looked up as a branch somewhere in the woods across the street cracked, stepping forward in anticipation. _

_"Janet? Honey?" He chuckled lightly. "I didn't think you'd get away from that boyfriend of yours so fast. You really are--" But his cheerful expression didn't last long. Out of the woods came no woman, but a creature a Hunter would have known, but which the man obviously didn't. A wendigo, long claws dripping with melted snow, was crouched down low against the pavement, moving on all fours, in a very un-wendigo way. Almost as though he were following a command to savour the kill. The man made a choking sound and turned to run, but the wendigo was on top of him, twisting his neck until the distinctive pop of a neck breaking and life ending reverberated through the deserted street. The creature howled in triumph. As though on cue, a hundred more identical howls answered. _

_The woods swarmed. Wendigo, black dogs, ghouls, possessed humans and a thousand more varieties of evil clambered over and under each other, scrambling into the street. Some of their faces, snouts, and hands were covered in blood, and there was little question what, exactly, they had been doing in those woods. _

_And then he stepped forward. The Demon moved in the center of them. He held up one hand and the victorious howls ceased. "My friends! The hour of our triumph is now!" A wild clamor arose. He stopped them again, and continued. "This day, we hold at our mercy the two remaining Winchesters! Those who have killed your families, plundered your territories!" Cheers and yells. "What say you? Shall we end their lives now?" The beasts howled and the more humanoid monsters screamed "Yes, yes, yes!" The Demon laughed. "Shall I kill them, or give them to you?" _

_"Us, us, us!" _

_"What will you do with them?"_

_"Cut and kill and _**burn**_!" The Demon threw back his head and made a sound so terrible, the very trees seemed to shy away from his voice. _

_"Then they're yours!" And from the trees, a large group of men, bulky with muscle dragged a tall form from the trees. The light jacket on his shoulders was torn, one sleeve almost completely gone. The man, recognizable as the youngest Winchester staggered, blood dripping with ferocious speed from an unknown source, and when they came to a stop near the Demon himself, it didn't take long for a deep crimson puddle to form around him. Soon after, another group appeared, this time, black dogs with rope in their mouth charged forward, surging through the crowd, and while there was a moment of curiosity about the purpose of that rope, it didn't last long. Dean Winchester, tied by the wrists, was being dragged behind them, a modern day Hector. The black dogs raced to the Demon's side, depositing the ropes at his feet. While Sam was covered in bruises, dark and red, his brother was untouched, save for a small trickle of blood coming from his eyes and mouth. There was no wound on his neck._

_The Demon stepped away, and both brothers were seized by beings of evil. Some raised hatchets and clubs; others merely used their claws and teeth. Someone lit up the trees with a torch, setting them to blazing. But through the melee, the mob of beating and fire, fallen from the pocket of the poor man slaughtered by the wendigo as he waited for his lover, his telephone began to beep a reminder for some unknown appointment.. It read 'December 26, 2007. 12:00 a.m.---'_

Sam opened his eyes. Dean was on his knees, the scarf around his neck loose, exposing the beginning of his death wound. "Sammy!" He was saying, but Sam could barely hear him above the howling of his own mind.

They were going to die.

His family was going to die. He glanced down at his wristwatch. The date read, 'October 11, 2006'. He met Dean's eyes. "I'm okay. It's over."

Dean looked doubtful. "What did you see?"

He had a year. One year to ready himself. One year to be good enough that when whatever circumstance came that had led him to stand helpless at the demon's feet, at the mercy of evil, he would be able to deflect it. One year to find our how he could stop Dean from sharing whatever fate awaited him. One year to become the all powerful Monarch he had been told to be. One year. And he would do it.

Sam swallowed, an odd anticipation swelling in his chest. A challenge, it seemed like. A challenge from the Demon. He could meet it. "In a weird kind of way…our salvation."

_

* * *

_

Dean insisted on finding Sam some aspirin, after that episode, and they found it with the assistance of several college age girls who'd seemed more than pleased with the idea of helping two, tall, athletic men find their way around campass. The sun had already gone down by the time Dean had managed to cajole them into leaving, and John stomped into the room (a comfortably furnished dorm with two beds) shortly after that, Eloise close behind him.

"Sam, Dean," she said, smiling sweetly, "I'd like a word, if you don't mind." He looked at his father for approval, which was given with a slight nod. The two of them slipped out the door. Eloise shut it firmly behind them, giving one more encouragingly trusting smile at Dean, her movements becoming suddenly frenzied the moment the latch clicked. "Hurry! We don't have much time." She was already several steps ahead when Sam finally understood her intention to move to another location. Dean fell into line beside him.

"Time for what?"

"We're saving your brother tonight. There's a coven nearby. I drew off an entire group of Hunters a few months ago; they owe me a favor. There's Shtriga among them. One of them ought to be able to find your brother's soul. But there's one condition. There's no way they'll allow all of us to go into their nest. Dean, you'll have to go part of the way alone."

"No. No way." Sam looked at her incredulously. For a Winchester to walk into an entire nest of witches was…inconceivable to say the least. Let alone Dean, who was not in the best shape of his life...or death. Witches were the craftiest of all the evil Sam had ever hunted; they wouldn't hesitate to shake your hand with their right, and stab you in the heart with their left. No. Absolutely not. "He's not going anywhere alone. You saw what happened today when I let him." Dean gave him a slightly upset look.

Eloise nodded. "I know, Sam. And that's why we have so little time. I'm going to teach you how to communicate with your brother."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "We do have phones."

"Yes, of course, but that won't do. I mean with your minds." The older sibling's jaw dropped a little, lips making a surprised 'o'. She ushered them into an abandoned classroom, turning the lights on, using the dimmer until they could just make out the facial features of the other. "Now, we only have two hours before our rendezvous with the mother witch. This is going to be a fast, and probably painless lesson. I can only say things once, so pay attention." She indicated two desks. "Sit and face each other, please." They did so. "Now, understand this is going to be drastically different for each of you. Sam, you'll be able to form actual words, but you'll only understand the combinations of emotions your brother sends to you; Dean, you'll be able to get a vague sense of what Sam means. You won't get exact phrases like he will, and it might be hard to decipher what he means."

Dean swallowed, his eyes betrayed his own discomfort. "Okay."

"Sam?"

"Okay."

"Good. I'm going to enter both of you. This is how it's done. I'll brush my conciousness against yours, and then I'll come in. Kind of a 'knock and enter' policy. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Yes ma'am."

"From there, I'll connect the two of you, like a telephone operator. Eventually, Sam, you'll be able to initiate contact, but for tonight, leave it to me." She closed her eyes. Sam almost got up when his brother went suddenly rigid, his eyes rolling back slightly, but he didn't get the chance, because the next moment, Eloise had brushed and entered him too. Her voice said, **::Sam?:: **He tried to form a word, and she laughed at him. **::Don't worry. You'll get it. Words aren't complicated. Just think them.:: **He thought, **::Where's Dean?:: **

He felt her smile. **::Well done! I'm bringing the two of you together. Be easy, Sam. Your brother isn't like us. Whisper. Normal speaking to us is like screaming in his ears.:: **He felt her leave, and his blood pounded in his ears, his own thoughts suddenly echoing in the empty space she had just occupied. He waited in the silence until--

**::confusion/amazement/confusion!:: **And Dean was there. Even if Eloise hadn't told him who she was connecting with him, he'd have known. It was the understanding they had between them in their siblingship a thousand times stronger. He could feel an inclination toward classic rock, toward brunettes, toward family. He vaguely wondered if Dean could sense the same things in him.

**::Dean?:: **He said, and winced. He hadn't whispered.

The mind beside his flinched away. **::pain/escape/out.:: **

**::Sorry.:: **And then came the bundle of emotion-words. Sam stopped. He knew this word. But he couldn't bring it forward to voice it. **::Say it again, Dean.::**

**::love/friendship/sadness/anger/love/playful/bitter/happiness:: **Sam smiled. Now he knew that word. It was his own name. Dean was smart. He was getting vocabulary down they would need later in the night.

**::Sam.::**

**::approval:: **

**::Another?::**

**::evil/cruelty/hate:: **

**::Witch::**

**:approval::**

**::need/fear::**

**::I don't understand.::**

**::fear/necessity/fatigue::**

**::Oh. Run?::**

**::approval/approval!:: **

They continued on until they had mastered words like ,"father", "danger", and "help". Sam had been poised to ask for another word when Dean had suddenly disappeared. He wasn't sure if he'd cried out in his head or out loud, but it didn't matter, because Eloise shook him gently, and he blinked out of whatever frame of mind he'd been in. Dean was still across from him, shaking but grinning broadly. She smiled.

"Very well done! You catch on quick, both of you. Sam, you can try and initiate contact; you're very good at this. But remember, when you are hosting a mind, you treat it like you're holding glass. Don't just jump in. Brush first, then enter. Remember. I will see you downstairs in thirty minutes." She swept out gracefully, leaving the brothers alone.

They sat in silence for a moment, neither of them sure what to say. Then Sam laughed exultantly. "So that basically kicked the trash of the Vulcan mind-meld."

"Holy crap! That was awesome! We're like the Professor and Jean Grey! You being the girl, of course."

"In that case, realize you're an old crippled guy."

"Oh. Right. Who else has mind powers?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. All I know is I feel a lot better about tonight."

"Me too, honestly. Witches are nasty buggers."

"Buggers?"

"It's a word."

"Isn't that an English word, though? Like 'chap' and 'bloody'?"

Dean shrugged, rising from his chair. "Don't know. I saw it on TV once." He turned a circle in the hallway, arms in the air above his head, clenched into fists. "But that was intense."

"In half an hour we'll do it again. Hey, Dean?"

"Yep?"

"Our room is this way."

"Oh."

* * *

_Thanks very much for reading! Please review, and Merry Christmas, everyone!_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	10. Chapter 10

_I'm a bad person, I know. It's taken me forever to write this chapter. I'll admit it. But it's here now, and that's what counts, right:) Enjoy!_

_I don't own Supernatural, and I don't make any money doing this. Unfortunately. _

* * *

The witch watched them. Strangers. Four of them. She had been sent forth from the Ancient Mother to watch these four. They were hunters. She could smell the reek of goodness all over them. And she knew why they were coming. One of them was ailing. His scent was disturbed and ragged. They wanted healing, an ancient witch rite that hadn't been performed in her coven in a hundred years. The witch smiled. They could have the healing. But it would cost them.

She slipped closer, relying on her natural invisibility to keep her unnoticed. She could make out voices as she neared them.

"How much further?" A male. Young. A voice like a faraway thunder clap. She caught a glimpse of his face, hair in his eyes, and etched it into her memory.

"Not long. Another half-mile, maybe." A woman. Old. A voice like leaves skating across a river. These first two walked ahead of the others, ten paces, perhaps. She turned her attention to the last two.

"--like I haven't done this before." The witch smiled. The voice of an undead. Which kind, she didn't know. Too low to be a vampire; too smooth to be a night-walker. But this was the one they wanted healing for.

"I know. But you've never hunted in a coven, Dean. It's a lot different." The witch recoiled. That voice seemed terrible to her ears. She darted away back into the forest, back toward the coven and the Ancient Mother. That voice frightened her. Pained, like the scream of a dying Fellow Sister. Powerful, like the rumble of an earthquake. The Ancient Mother and all her Fellow Sisters had to be warned.

She disappeared into the trees.

"Wait." Eloise stopped. Sam came up behind her, looked over his shoulder . "We're here. Dean goes by himself from now on."

The four of them formed an odd cluster of humanity in the cold, unforgiving woods. John met her eyes. "There's no way we can go with him."

"No. They'd kill us all."

John nodded. "Alright." He whipped a glistening, black Glock from his pocket and cocked it. A bird, startled by the sharp click of the hammer, went rushing away toward the sky. "But we hear one sound that gives me any reason to suspect something's going against us, you and all the armies of heaven won't stop me."

Sam nodded in agreement, pulling a silver pistol from his own jacket. Eloise glared at them both. "If they see those, we're all dead."

Sam shrugged. The adrenaline in his blood shortened his temper considerably. "Fine by me." Eloise eyed them both pensively, then said, "It's time, Sam. Do you want my help?"

Sam opened his mouth to say yes. Dean cut him off, the first words he'd spoken louder than a whisper the entire evening. "No. We'll do it." He turned to face his younger sibling, smiling wanly. "Go ahead."

"Dean, are you sure? Eloise has a lot more experience, and I don't want to hurt--"

"Just do it. I want to be alive again by dawn." Sam wanted to argue. But Dean had that look in his eyes, that look that made those eyes, normally jovial and friendly, turn hard and determined. Sam couldn't argue against that. Little brothers can never argue when a big brother has a look like that. So he nodded and closed his eyes.

It was harder this time. Last time, there had been only Dean and Sam/Eloise, two entities. This time, there were four, and Sam had to sift through them to find Dean. He brushed his father by accident, found it similar to his older brother's, but in the place of youth and vigor, there was age and weariness. Sam realized, with a shock, that his father was getting…older. Sam could feel age in his father's mind; it felt strange, so he backed away. Eloise was easy to distinguish, because her mind thrummed with the same caliber of power his own did. She was shining, and his father and brother were dim in comparison. Not dark, but dimmer, like a star compared to the moon. He skipped past her as well, and there his brother was. He recognized it immediately, and brushed lightly. He felt Dean's mind shy away a little, and Sam almost backed away. But Dean's resolve came over the bond fast and powerful, and the younger brother was left with no choice but to finish the job. He waited for--

:**::love/friendship/sadness/anger/love/playful/bitter/happiness??:: **Sam smiled. His own name always came easiest to Dean's mind-voice.

**::_Hey, Dean. I'm here.:: _**

"Are you ready?" Eloise's voice sounded hideous in his ears, like metal grating against concrete. Speaking through his mind was so much…purer. If Sam never had to use his physical voice again, or hear anyone else's, that was fine with him.

"Ready enough." Dean's voice sounded worse than Eloise's had.

**::_I'll be waiting. Dad too. You call if you need us.::_**

**::assurance/promise::**

**::_I mean it. ::_**

**::assurance/promise!!:: **

Dean disappeared into the trees.

* * *

The witch watched the undead. He walked with assurance that came from inside, sure and steady footfalls. She saw his eyes scan the woods around him as his ears picked up the nearby sound of several of her Fellow Sisters chanting an incantation that would seal off the coven from outside influences. Unless someone already knew their exact location, the incantation would keep them from being seen. There'd been a werewolf in the area a few weeks before, and the Ancient Mother was unwilling to lose more of her Sister Daughters than she had to; werewolves were too stupid to see through a spell like this.

The witch sniffed, then cowered back against a tree. The Ancient Mother was coming. A quick glance at the undead. He didn't look special. More handsome than other humans that had wandered into their territory, perhaps, but why was the Ancient Mother interested enough in this one to view him personally?

The witch didn't have time to contemplate further. Since she'd warned her Fellow Sisters of a possible attack, the coven had spread themselves out, working their way through the trees until they formed a circle around the stranger. A Master Sister raised her hand, and all the lower-level witches prepared to leap from their hiding places. The stranger would already be boxed in. All they would have to do then is transport him to the Coven Heart. The Master Sister dropped her slender hand and the witch heard the stranger make a strange, strangled noise as thirty witches dropped from out of nowhere to stand all around him.

His green eyes darted at each of them, but he was not afraid. Instinctively, the witch knew, he'd killed her kind before. The Master Sister beckoned her forward.

"Come. It was you that discovered him. You may be the Mouthpiece." The witch swallowed heavily. Being the Mouthpiece was a big enough task that if she completed it correctly, it could lead to being dubbed a Master Sister.

She began slowly. "Stranger! Where have you come?"

Her Fellow Sisters threw back the traditional response. "To our coven!"

"What will you find here if you mean us ill?"

"Death, death!"

He looked calmly at all of them. "Who's in charge here?"

The witch glared at him, and all her Fellow Sisters did the same. "You have come to be healed, yes, stranger?"

"Yes." Several witches whispered amongst themselves until they were shushed.

The witch straightened her shoulders. Her duty was to take charge now. "You will follow us to the Coven Heart. You will not speak unless the Ancient Mother wishes it."

"Cross my heart." The witches marched in unison. The Coven Heart was really just a large clearing, with altars and fire pits criss-crossing the ground. The trees here grew tall and provided a canopy of leaves to shield from the moonlight. Twenty more Fellow Sisters were dancing wildly around a towering pillar of flame in the center. Behind the flickering flames, the Ancient Mother's bulk was seated.

She was a millennia old, with magics only dreamed of by witches with less ability. Unnaturally deep wrinkled marred her skin, from her face to her fingers. A large, round form belied her swiftness, and she was very tall. If Sam had been there, she would have towered a foot or two above his head. Her robes glittered a deep, bloody red in the firelight. Those robes were said to have been stained their beautiful color by being steeped in the blood of a hundred innocent men.

It was before her that Dean Winchester was forced to his knees. He did not bow his head like he was supposed to, but met her evil-tinted gaze. The Ancient Mother snorted. "Insolent." Her voice boomed painfully in Dean's ears. Sam, a mile or two away felt it.

**_::Dean, what's happening?::_**

Dean could hear the worry in his brother's tone and cursed his primitive means of communication, and said, **::assurance::** The Ancient Mother lowered a hand that was as big as Dean's head, cupped his chin in her sausage-like fingers. "So you wish to be healed? Don't answer. I already know you do. I'm willing to do it."

Several witches gasped and murmured angrily. One spoke up. "But, Ancient Mother, he is a man! What obligation do we have toward a _man_?"

The Ancient Mother's lips curled up in a sneer. "Even men can have their purposes. And we have a promise to keep. Eloise Mitchell has asked for his salvation." The murmuring stopped. "We will no longer be indebted to her if we do this. Bring the altar."

From behind the crowd, there came a group of the biggest witches, dragging a thick, rocky altar. There were bloodstains crawling down the sides and across the top. It came to a stop directly in front of both Dean and the Ancient Mother. "Lie on your redemption bed, stranger." She instructed. The altar was nearly to Dean's shoulder and he had to half-climb it. He sat and met the Ancient Mother's eyes again. "Lie!" It was against everything a Winchester knew to lie down in the presence of an enemy. Even as Dean's shoulder blades came to rest against the rocky altar, his mind screamed to run.

**_::What's wrong? What's happening?::_**

**::assurance/insecurity::**

The Ancient Mother leaned over him, looming huge and strong. Abruptly, clouds of scent erupted all around him. He turned his head away from the witch above him to the witches around him. Each witch had a lamp, burning oils that, if he would have been alive to be affected, would have made him dizzy and confused. A chant rose up, spiraling through the smoke of the fire. One witch approached. In her hands was a needle made of what looked to be splinters of a finger bone. With it came a spool of thread. Dean'd read about this. Witch thread was made of dead man's hair. She came closer and drew the scarf away from Dean's neck, brushing the pale, dead skin with her fingertips. She joined the chant and threaded the needle.

Now Dean was a little freaked out.

**::Dean, answer me! I'm coming to find you unless you answer me!:: **Dean couldn't. He was held in morbid fascination as the needle approached his own neck. He didn't flinch away when he heard the slight pop of the needle entering his flesh and the witch proceeded to stitch the gaping maw in his neck. He could feel the skin closing, his air pipe weaving together behind the needle. The chant rose in volume and pitch. The Ancient Mother lowered her hands, put them over his eyes, doing a chant of her own. Not being able to see was worse. The chant rose again--but that chant sounded like screaming. Abruptly, the chant halted, giving way to screams and wails of terror. The Ancient Mother did not panic, but her hands were ripped away from Dean's eyes and she was thrown to the ground. Dean could see who had done it. He sat up and prepared for the worst.

The Ancient Mother spoke first. "Hello, Raziel."

The Demon smiled politely back at her. "I've come to negotiate."

"For what do you wish to negotiate?"

"Well, haggle is really more like it. That man there? He's my property. Your soul-calling ceremony won't work unless I give it the go-ahead."

**::heat/evil/loss::**

**_::The Demon is there?! We're coming.:: _**

The Demon's head turned unnaturally fast. "Learned a new trick, Dean? No matter." He turned back to the Ancient Mother. "So you see, I need something in return. A life for a life."

"Will you accept a Fellow Sister?"

"No. Witch souls are so foul. No, if the only trade you can offer me is a witch, I am afraid I'll have to keep my Winchester. But I have a plan. Eloise is off her own property. She's no longer protected. All you must do is finish the ceremony while I do what I must do. I see you've already sewed him up. It's clean work." The Demon smiled with wicked sympathy. "You know, Dean, it's a shame that I'm always right. Especially about your family."

"You don't know anything about my family."

"Of course I do. I told you before that you don't mean as much to your family as they mean to you." He laughed. "Your brother couldn't even kill once for you, and you've killed a hundred times for him. Sad, really."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your brother could have spared your life days ago. If he'd have had the guts to kill one, measly little person. But he couldn't do it. Not even to save you. Might want to talk to your family shrink about it sometime, Dean-o." Dean started to retort about where he thought the Demon could stuff his words, but he disappeared into a cloud of black smoke and the witches started again as though there had been no interruption.

The final stitch in his throat was completed and the witch cut the thread with her teeth. The Ancient Mother covered his eyes again, and Dean felt a tingle start in his chest. What was that? It hurt the first few times it happened, but then it settled in to a rhythm, a thud-thud thud-thud. And suddenly Dean knew what it was.

A heartbeat.

* * *

Sam came crashing through the trees and into the coven like an escaped convict running for freedom. His father was behind him. Eloise was some ways back, no doubt trying to keep up. He should have felt guilty about leaving an old woman alone in the woods to go after his young, trained brother.

He didn't.

The clearing was swarming with witches. All kinds of them. They were all chanting and swaying and gyrating wildly. Smoke was everywhere, scents that made his vision blur and his nose sting. He brought up his arm and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve.

**_::Dean, where are you!?:: _**"Dean, where are you!?" The crowd parted slightly, but did not stop their incantation. His father darted forward and began to shove his way through the crowd. Sam followed close behind, his pistol ready to fire. He heard his father cry out and looked up to view the largest witch he'd ever seen. She was looking down at a smaller form beneath her huge hands.

Dean.

John raised his pistol and aimed for her heart, and he wanted to kill her, kill this freak that dared touch his son, this monster with her hands on Dean, but then he heard something.

Dean gasped.

A sharp, intake of breath, followed by a cough that brought up remnants of the blood that had filled his lungs the night Dean had died. John hesitated. Breathing meant alive.The chant slowed then stopped, but stopped as though anticipating something.

"Put those guns down!" Eloise was just coming out of the trees. She crossed the clearing quickly, panting and out of breath. "They're doing it, don't you see?" She was next to the altar now. All the witches eyed her, frozen in that anticipating awareness. "If we interrupt them now, it---" There was a jet of black smoke that streaked in from the sky, whirling down to form into the Demon's slender form in front of Eloise. In one millisecond of eternity, he raised a knife black as night and brought it swinging down into Eloise's heart. A jet of red shot from her mouth.

"No!" Sam screamed and fired off two shots into the Demon's head. It didn't matter. Silver bullets meant nothing. John fired too, almost at the same time, but they had not brought the Colt, expecting witches, not demons. The Demon laughed, giddy, and spun away. He looked at the Ancient Mother. "Now you may finish. A life for a life." The witches cried three more words and from out of the very air around them, there came a whistling howl, a soul returning to its vessel. Light grey dust gathered above Dean's head, then plunged downward into his eyes and mouth. Dean writhed, clenching and unclenching his fists, body shaking in a near epileptic fit. He fell back panting when it was over. Panting.

Breathing.

Sam dropped by Eloise's side, where she sat slumped against the altar's side, the grass beneath her slick with blood. "Eloise? Hey. Hey, we're going to get you out of here." He was vaguely aware of John helping Dean off the altar.

"A life for a life. You know, when I inhabited your husband's body and made it my own, you should have killed yourself like you were going to. It would have made things that much easier. And if Sam would have killed you, I would have left his family out of the war." He shrugged. "Ah, the twisted webs we weave."

Eloise tried to respond, but blood choked her. Sam's eyes were wide. "When she told me you took her husband…"

"You thought she meant kill? No. He was the first in the long line of men I hope to allow my kind to inhabit, and not just inhabit, but join with. We are one being. Although, it is ironic that the hands Eloise used to love so much are the ones that just stabbed her. See you around, Samuel." He disappeared into a black fog that shot away into the trees.

Eloise looked at Sam, her brown eyes wide with panic. But only for a few more heartbeats. Then she was gone. There was a hand on Sam's shoulder. He lowered Eloise reluctantly to the ground then glanced over his shoulder to meet Dean's eyes.

"It's not your fault." That voice. Whole and healed, loud and firm. Dean's voice. Dean was leaning against his father, trembling in the cold he could now feel. Dean's eyes had emotion in them. Full emotion, emotion that came only from having a soul. Sam felt joy leap up in his heart, but it was stained with blood.

"Yeah."

John pulled his youngest to his feet. "We can't stay here." It was true. The Ancient Mother was pointing toward the trees. It was clear she wanted them to leave, now that she had been released from her debt. "We have to get both of you back. Dean needs sleep." Sam cast a glance at his brother. There were pieces of what looked to be string in his neck and his body was sagging tiredly against his father's. "And you need…" He trailed off, but Sam didn't need to hear anymore. Sam slung one of Dean's arms across his shoulders, crouching slightly so Dean didn't have to reach up and they worked their way back into the trees.

Behind them, the corpse of Eloise Mitchell became the feast of the Ancient Mother.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Have a wonderful wait for "Roadkill"! (Darn that hiatus!)_

_--Kim Who Knows_


	11. Interlude I

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! This has taken me an inexcusable amount of time to write. I was beset by plotbunnies. I really was. But thanks to all of you who reviewed the last chapter! You really do make writing this more fun._

_Alright, so this is an interlude. This is a part of the story, inbetween parts of the story. The first "era", I guess that's what I'll call it, is over. Dean is back to life, Eloise Mitchell is dead, and the Demon is getting ready to open the gate of hell. I'm not sure whether to post the next "era" as another story, or leave it under this same link. But I'll let you know._

* * *

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy." That was what Dean kept saying. It was an empty assurance, Sam could tell, an instinctual effort to comfort his younger brother, more out of routine than out of sincerety. Normally, Sam would have argued, been upset by his brother's baseless optimism, but Dean was going out fast; his father and brother now shouldered most of his weight. As clearly as Sam could tell, this was retribution for all those weeks spent in a physical limbo. It wasn't Dean's body that was giving out, but his mind, craving rest and relief from weeks of pent-up, false awareness it was shutting everything down, forcing sleep, like a self-administered sedative. It would have been funny, at another time, when simply existing wasn't so...hard.

Hard. Grimly, Sam thought back to when he thought 'hard' meant moving around a lot. When 'hard' meant a big paper was due. When 'hard' was trying to find their father. 'Hard' now meant, 'wrapped up in a demonic plot to destroy humanity'. He bit his lip. And now, there was no one to give them answers. Eloise had certainly never been "friend", but she had been "ally". She was heading up a fight against the Demon. She knew things. She'd been like him. She had reassured Sam that he really wasn't in this alone. Dean meant well, but he didn't understand what it was _like_. He tried, Sam knew, and he was grateful for it, ut it had been comforting to know that there was someone that knew firsthand.

"Sam." The sound of his father's voice was grounding. It brought Sam back to earth, back to the present. From anyone else, it would have been a question. From John, it was a command. Resentment prickled faintly in Sam's thoughts, but it slipped away. Drained, he didn't have the strength to foster it.

"We're almost there," He said, although he knew that hadn't been the impending question. A log tripped him up, just a little. He felt Dean straighten up at his side at that, just an infinitesimal amount, but it was enough. Sam's own despairing thoughts attached themselves to Dean's resolve, like a spinal cord to a backbone, relying on it. It was like that a lot, lately. Even when Dean was in a downward spiral, even if he was hurting, even if he was mostly _dead_, he always found that last reserve of strength to straighten up at Sam's side and keep pushing. Dean lived by Sam and for Sam.

It scared the younger brother to know he had that kind of power.

It was nice, of course, to know that someone was always there to catch him if he fell. It had _always _nice, since they were kids. But this was different. Living for Sam had dark implications. Dean wasn't protecting him from bullies or prejudiced teachers, or even black dogs and spirits. This was _war. _If the protector mentality continued, Dean would be up against the Demon himself. And Sam remembered the last time…

_Dean who fell first in a shower of blood, his crimson life pouring from the ribbons of flesh that had once made up the front of his neck. He went down hard and without even blinking, the Demon stepped over his body__…_

Not again. Never again.

Dean's role as protector aside, what about his role as brother? Suppose that Sam really were captured by the Demon? Assuming that his role of Monarch put him within the Demon's path, what if it also put him in his power? It was a terrible thing. If Sam asked for it, he got it. Once, Pastor Jim had said that if you wanted the eyes out out of Dean's head, your only problem would be convincing Sam to ask for them. It would be so _easy_ for the Demon to get anything he wanted from Dean (which was apparently something, judging by the earlier attack on his mind). All he had to do was use Sam to ask for it.

Dean's love was a priceless gift with an unforeseen cost.

The sun was rising behind them. The dew covered trees lit up, each tiny drop of water catching the sunlight, reflecting it back. What it was, Sam could never tell, but the beauty of sunrise always seemed to erase the ugliness of the night. Whatever death or pain they had witnessed, the sunrise dulled it. Eloise's school came into view. It was a welcome relief.

As they approached, (slowly, Dean was mostly dead weight) the man who had greeted Sam his first few moments at the school came down the steps to meet them. He was wearing another suit, but the first time, every line had been flat and smooth. Now, there were wrinkles on the shoulders, and the pants had creases. It was apparent he had been awake through the night.

They met at the bottom of the stairs. The man clenched his jaw, and said, calmly, "Eloise is dead?"

Sam couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, John nodded. "Witches."

The man's composure slipped a fraction. "You have accomplished your objective?" A surge of anger filtered through Sam's regret. It was obvious that this man didn't believe Dean a fair trade for Eloise. He stared contemptuously at the older brother, oblivious to the danger he was putting himself in doing so. Sam resolved not to like him. He tightened his trip on Dean just a little and said, "My brother's back, yes."

Surprised by Sam's tone, Eloise's obviously zealous follower looked up from his inspection of Dean. He was met with eyes that quickly told him that he was treading in dangerous waters. Two sets. Both father and younger brother looked as though they would rather devour him alive than have him say another word. Silently, he stepped back and gestured to the doorway. Going up the stairs was difficult, but Dean found it in him for another short burst of energy, which made it easier. As they reached the door, they heard a voice behind them, cry, "David!"

Sam turned just enough to see. The man behind them was standing impassively, as a woman in her middle-age came running at him. She slid to a stop, in only a matching pajama top and bottom, barefoot, and grasped at his suit. "Is Eloise back? One of the girls had a meltdown. I need her help."

"Eloise is dead." David replied dully.

The woman stepped back, her face paling. "Dead? How?"

With as much contempt as he could muster, he said, "Ask them." Before the woman could, John pushed both family members inside the school, gave Dean's weight to Sam, and shut the heavy doors. Dean swallowed hard, and managed a dryly amused look.

"I think we made a friend," he said.

* * *

Dean melted back against the pillows as soon as Sam let go. As instantaneous as flicking a switch, he was lost to sleep. He made it back to their room before he let go, and Sam was determined to do just as well before he went down too. John, watching Sam pull blankets over his older brother, despite his own exhaustion, felt a surge of pride. They were strong, strong men, his children. 

He let the last of the salt fall from the bag onto the semicircle around the door and stood up, annoyed by how loudly his knees popped. He saw Sam reach for the second bag and move toward the window. The pride only surged harder. But enough was enough.

"I got it, Sam. You get some rest."

He literally saw his son's shoulders drop in relief. "You sure?"

"I got it." John repeated. He took the salt bag out of Sam's grasp and went to work on the window. By the time he turned around again, Sam had collapsed on his bed and had joined his brother in unconsciousness.

"Good boys." He said to himself, as he settled back in an armchair. "Good boys."

It was a long night. He slept off and on, but had his cellphone alarm clock on vibrate to go off every few hours to make sure that all was well. Sam rolled onto his side, and then onto his back, but Dean didn't so much as twitch. Both of them slept the night through, which he was glad for. They needed it.

By eight the next morning, Sam was awake, although he stayed in bed another half-hour. John pretended to be asleep, watching. Sam's first move was to raise his head and look over at Dean. John didn't doubt that when Dean woke up, his first move would be to look over at Sam. That was something new they must have developed while he'd been…gone.

He'd missed a lot of new quirks while he'd been…gone.

Before all this, before the Demon had ever come for the three of them, they'd stopped at a diner to eat. Both boys had ordered steak and baked potatoes, but when the potatoes came, automatically Sam scooped out the white part onto his plate and handed the skin over to Dean, who then handed over his own potato for Sam to do the same.

He'd said, "What was that?"

Sam had scrunched up his nose, thinking. "Well, Dean likes the skin, and I don't, so we just switch."

"When did that start?"

Neither son knew. They hemmed and hawwed about how it must have been a few months ago, or a few weeks ago, but neither of them wanted to say it.

Then Sam said, "Dad? Are you awake?" and John had to stop pretending to be asleep.

"I'm up."

His son sat up and stretched, blinking slowly. He swung both legs out of bed and sat facing Dean's still sleeping form for a moment.

"Hey, Dad?" He said, hesitantly. "I'm gonna grab a shower, and then…can I borrow the truck? Just for a minute. There's something I have to do." His expression made him look so adult.

John studied his son. Was it supposed to be like this? Were children supposed to grow up? Was Little Sammy, the baby in their one and only surviving family portrait, always destined to grow into a man? Slowly, John nodded. "Sure."

As Sam quietly left the room, a change of clothes in his hand, John realized, for the first time in a long time, that maybe, he and Sam weren't really enemies.

* * *

Sam knew his way around the mansion pretty well, now. His knowledge of the classrooms and offices was still sketchy, but in his "family quarters", it was like he'd always been there. Two turns right, one to the left, big staircase, down the hall, door five. It was a heavy wooden door, with a bronze handle. He put an ear to the door. Nothing. Utter silence. He pushed it open carefully, grateful that the hinges were good and didn't squeak. His brother was sprawled across the bed, tangled in his sheets the way Dean always was, one corner of the bedspread pulled up to spare his eyes the glare from the sun that filtered in through the crack in the curtain. Sam stepped forward and pulled both sides together so the streak of sun disappeared from Dean's face. The middle Winchester made a sleepy sound. Sam whispered, "Dean?" 

Dean didn't open his eyes, but he half-responded. "Hmm?"

"Dean?"

"Wha-at?" It was a whiny, petulant answer, but it was possibly the best sound Sam had ever heard. Dean's voice was strong and deep and rushing like a river just meeting the ocean. It was _whole _again.

"Are you awake?"

"Mm-_mmm._" In sleeping-Dean language, that plainly meant, _shut up before I smack you. _Sam slid down the wall to a sitting position and stretched out his legs in front of him. His thighs were still sore from charging through the woods to the coven, not bothering to slow down for fallen trees and overgrown paths, jumping them or pushing through them instead. He rubbed a bruised kneecap absentmindedly. Dean, disturbed by the sudden silence, cracked one eye open and shifted to his side, muttering angrily.

Sam grinned. Somehow, there was always that spark of amusement in him when he got on Dean's nerves that he'd never been able to avoid. Little brother genes, he guessed. "Morning, sunshine."

"What do you want?

It was a good question. "Just seeing if you're awake."

"I am now. What time is it?"

"Twelve-something."

Closing his eye again and groaning, Dean sat up. "Seriously? Dad's gonna kill me."

"Why?"

"He'll want to move out of here as soon as we can."

Sam looked torn. "Yeah, maybe." He shifted the thing in his hands conspicuously. Like he'd hoped, it caught Dean's attention.

Like a bird attracked to something shiny, Dean focused on the black rectangle in his brother's hands. "What is that?"

Controlling a smile, Sam stood up as nonchalantly as he could. He reached the cabinant in the corner and pulled it open, revealing the television he'd "borrowed" from an unoccupied classroom, complete with VCR. "Oh, this? Nothing."

"Sam, what is it?" Sam had to choke back a laugh. His brother could be deadly serious sometimes, but hold out on giving him something and it was like making a four-year old wait at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning.

He opened the video tape box and tossed it toward his brother. Dean reached out and caught it with one hand. It had no lable. Completely frustrated, he hurled it sullenly back at Sam, who sidestepped it neatly. Deciding the game had gone on long enough, Sam pressed play and went back to his brother's bed, forcing him to scoot over so they both could sit, backs against the headboard. The credits started to roll and Dean's jaw clenched. He whipped his head around to stare at his brother.

"Sam?" He said. One word, but the tone meant volumes.

"Godzilla vs. Megladon. This is the one you wanted to watch, isn't it?" Sam met his brother's eyes with a sad smile.

Dean's responding smile had no sadness. Only relief, joy, gratitude. "Where'd you even find this thing?"

"Blockbuster."

"We don't have a Blockbuster card."

Sam looked suddenly uncomfortable. A wicked smile spread across his brother's face. "You stole it, didn't you."

"I didn't steal it!"

"You did!" A giddy laugh. "I have taught you well, young padowan."

"Shut up." Sam pushed his brother in mock sulleness. "Watch your movie or I'll take it back."

They sat (almost) silently. Dean kept making up his own subtitles, mostly dirty, and Sam couldn't resist a few of his own, although they were cleaner. The people were all screaming and running and talking in really badly dubbed English. Sam couldn't resist some critique, though all it earned him was a punch to the arm. For the first time in a long time, there were no witches, no wendigos, no spirits, no vampires, and no demons.

Just each other.

* * *

_And there it is! Part one of the story is finished! Whoop! Leave a review, please, and come back soon for the next part. _


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